


Come Downstairs

by youaremarvelous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Bookstores, Christmas Party, Coming Out, Demisexual Akaashi, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I feel like I should start keeping a tally of how many birds die in this fic I AM SORRY, M/M, Mugging, Nosebleed, Platonic Touching, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Texting, University, Valentine's Day, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 50,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaashi Keiji is pretty certain that he’s got love figured out. Or at least, he’s figured out that love isn’t for him. It isn't until his new downstairs neighbor moves in that he realizes even intelligent people make mistakes in their calculations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter

By now, Akaashi Keiji is pretty certain that he’s got love figured out. Or at least, he thinks as he thumbs open his phone screen and deletes the third contact in six months, he’s figured out that love isn’t for him.

 

He tosses his phone on his bed, distantly wondering if he shouldn’t lie next to it and try to squeeze out a few tears—convince the universe he’s not an emotionless husk. It seems like too much effort, though, so he plods to his kitchen and makes a cup of coffee, instead.

 

He takes it black and doesn’t wait for it to cool before taking a sip. His nose crinkles as the steaming liquid burns its way down his throat and curls into his groaning stomach. It’s a sort of penance, maybe, for letting people fall in love with him when he has no means of reciprocating.

 

Muted yelling interrupts his thoughts. He scratches his neck and places the coffee cup on the counter, leaning his cheek against his small kitchen window and peering down to the street below. There’s a U-haul parked in front of his apartment complex. He can’t see much without opening the window, but from his position he can make out a pile of junk and the bottomed out box it came from.

 

He squints his eyes and tries to distinguish some of the contents. He manages to identify a Playstation controller, a black and white jersey, and the corner of an owl-patterned felt blanket before his eye catches movement.

 

He leans closer to the window, nose squishing against the cold glass surface, leaving a smudge of grease and a circle of condensation from his breath. A head bobs into view, white hair—black at the roots—and spiked to hell. All he can see is the top of the guy’s head and already Akaashi thinks he looks noisy.

 

A big hand reaches out and grabs a handful of junk before haphazardly stuffing it into a black trash bag. Akaashi tries to re-position himself so he can see better, and in the process thumps his forehead none too gracefully against the window. It couldn’t have been too loud, especially not from outside on street level (he’s three floors up for Christ’s sake!). Still, the stranger pauses and looks up, eyes wide and golden and staring right at Akaashi.

 

Akaashi’s heart lurches and he jumps back, bumping into a chair and making it squeak against linoleum. He presses a hand to his chest, urging his heartbeat to slow, and unconsciously chews his bottom lip.

 

‘ _Did he see me_?’ He wonders.

 

Then, just as quickly, he questions why it even matters.

 

+

 

‘ _It was probably a cat_ ,’ Akaashi tells himself as he rinses out his coffee cup. There are stray cats all over the place. He probably spotted one on the roof or heard one fighting with a crow or something.

 

Akaashi sets the mug in the drying rack and wipes his wet hands on his plaid pajama pants. It isn’t like the guy could’ve seen him, anyway. Between the reflection on the window and the fact that the glass hadn’t been cleaned on the outside in probably close to a decade, there’s no way he could’ve been spotted.

 

Maybe the guy was just scoping out his new home. Looking to his future in that wide-eyed idealist way the protagonists in coming-of-age movies always did. Akaashi can almost hear the hopeful, swelling music as he sits at his kitchen table and opens his Analytic Geometry book. He rolls his eyes and thumbs the pages. His homework is shoved in the middle, marking the spot he had left off last night.

 

He’d wanted to finish the work that evening, but he was forced to stop mid-equation to hear from his newest ex that he was too blunt, too cold, and too hard to read.

 

Maybe all those things were true, he’s certainly heard them often enough, but he has a math assignment, an essay on hydraulics, and an annotated bibliography due by the end of the week. He doesn’t have time to play remorseful ex to another frustrated, teary-eyed boyfriend. Not when he can already recite the damn speech.

 

Akaashi slams his pencil down. He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, turning his head to the ceiling and heaving a sigh.

 

He’s more upset about not getting his homework done than breaking up with someone. There is seriously something wrong with him.

 

+

 

Akaashi hopes the new guy doesn’t live near him. His current neighbors are quiet. He doesn’t feel obligated to exchange niceties every time he passes them in the hall or on the stairs. There’s an unspoken understanding that just because they live near each other, doesn’t mean they have to be friends.

 

Of course, there’s a reason Akaashi relies on logic and strategy rather than luck. His sentiments are rekindled when he realizes the new guy lives just below him.

 

He hasn’t gone down to meet him, officially. If he could have it his way, he never would. He knows he’s there, though. He can hear his laugh late at night—raucous and unguarded.

 

Akaashi’s never felt comfortable making a lot of noise in his apartment. He steps lightly and listens to his music with headphones on. He doesn’t fear people, but he doesn’t want to be bothered with them, either. The neighbor ostensibly does not share this sentiment.

 

It becomes normal for Akaashi to live with constant auditory and olfactory disturbances. He knows he should find it annoying, and initially he does, but over time he begins to be comforted. The smell of cookies wafting into his kitchen at 2am when he’s struggling through a math assignment relaxes him, and he times his breath with the sound of loud snores when he’s prone in bed, gripped with an unwarranted anxiety and running through plans on a continuous loop.

 

Akaashi finds himself able to live vicariously through his neighbor’s carefree lifestyle. Sometimes at night, he sits in his dark kitchen, elbow against the windowsill, watching the city move below him. His eyes grow tired and blur the neon blues and yellows and greens into a dizzy, orbiting pulse. The bass from his neighbor’s music rattles his windows and leaches into the bottoms of his feet.

 

It’s a restless feeling, like he is the singular inert epicenter of a world he can never truly access—a world of vibrancy and enthusiasm and not just textbooks and planners. He thinks he should be doing something, but he doesn’t know what.

 

Or maybe he just doesn’t have the energy to care.

 

He sighs and thinks about turning on the light and starting to study again. He pauses when his hand is hovering over the light switch—it’s a short pause, but in it, he considers for the first time going to meet his neighbor. Then the thought is shoved away and the light is on and he is staring into an open book, not really reading the words.

 

+

 

They officially meet near the beginning of December.

 

The neighbor has been living below Akaashi for almost a full month and Akaashi has managed to dutifully avoid him for as long. It’s not hard. He has to pause at the top of the stairs sometimes to wait for the neighbor to clear the stairwell, and he’s ducked down the alleyway coming home a handful of times, but by and large, his life has remained markedly undisturbed.

 

In the end, it’s his craving for convenience store junk food that does him in.

 

It’s late Friday night. He’s been thumbing through a reading for one of his GED courses when he realizes he’s skimmed three full pages without absorbing anything and decides to take a break.

 

He’s hungry but it’s past midnight and he doesn’t particularly feel like making something to eat, so he shoves his feet into his sneakers, throws on a jacket and makes his way to the convenience store across the street.

 

The place is predictably empty. The cashier gives him a distracted nod. He’s leaned over a book, probably studying. Akaashi makes his way down the aisles, surveying snack choices. He’s picking up a package of melon pan when the door chimes and a new person enters. He glances up and recognizes the face—Ishida, his most recent ex.

 

Akaashi grimaces and ducks around a corner, watching him behind a rack of gum. He doesn’t exactly want to work his way through a stilted, awkward conversation with the guy, especially not late on a Friday night, looking as disheveled as he does. Besides, judging by the way he’s stumbling around, he’s most likely coming from the bar. Akaashi fears the comforting he might have to do if he’s a sad drunk. He just doesn’t want to be bothered.

 

Unfortunately, luck doesn’t seem to be on his side. The convenience store is small, and despite Akaashi’s best efforts, he’s spotted when he tries to dart around a corner towards the coolers.

 

“Akaashi,” Ishida barks after him.

 

The noise makes Akaashi’s shoulders jump towards his ears. He turns around slowly and nods his head in acknowledgment. The “hi” he mumbles is so quiet even he can barely hear it.

 

Ishida’s face turns red and he points at him. “It _is_ you!” He draws nearer, forcing his way into Akaashi’s personal space. “You deleted my number, didn’t you?”

 

Akaashi backs away. The guy’s breath is absolutely revolting and so heavy with alcohol he fears his eyebrows might be singed.

 

Ishida doesn’t wait for an answer before grabbing Akaashi by the collar. “You don’t even fucking care, do you? You don’t care about how I feel, you never did!”

 

It’s so dramatic. They hadn’t even dated a full month. They hadn’t even had _sex_. Akaashi would roll his eyes if not for the fist being thrust in his face. The punch is pretty weak—strength dulled by what seems to be a considerable amount of alcohol—but it still makes his head thump against the freezer door and his vision dance with stars.

 

Ishida rears back for another blow and Akaashi winces and crouches down to brace himself. There is no impact. Someone comes up behind his ex and grabs him by the wrist, telling him to, “chill out, bro.”

 

The interruption seems to sober Ishida up, because when he’s released, he mumbles an apology and stumbles out of the store. Akaashi straightens up so fast his head spins and he considers that he might have gotten hit harder than he’d originally thought.

 

He recognizes the spiked hair, black at the roots and white at the tips, and those big, golden eyes. Akaashi knows he’s staring but he can’t bring himself to stop, even when his neighbor’s mouth moves around words that are indecipherable through the roaring pulse in his ears.

 

“Huh?” Akaashi asks, because he currently lacks the capacity to string together something more eloquent like, “thank you” or “I’m sorry I’ve avoided you for a month.”

 

His neighbor seems unfazed. “Are you alright? You’re bleeding.”

 

Akaashi knits his brows and touches his face. His fingers come back slick and red. “I’m fine,” he says, and rubs his sleeve over his mouth when blood drips from his nose and pools into the crease of his lips.

 

The neighbor doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go. “Do you wanna call the cops on that guy? He probably hasn’t gotten far.”

 

Akaashi inwardly sighs and shrugs a shoulder. “No. No, it’s fine. He was just drunk.”

 

“I don’t really think that’s a good excuse to go around punching people.” Neighbor guy’s mouth quirks up at the corner and his eyes look unsure.

 

“No, I know. I mean—we broke up not too long ago, so…” He watches his neighbor’s face for signs of disgust or even surprise. Instead, he just looks smug, like he’s already pegged him.

 

“I can see why you broke up with him.”

 

Akaashi huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well, I’ve never seen him like that before. We didn’t date that long.”

 

The neighbor nods in understanding. “Guess you dodged a bullet, then.”

 

“Yeah, seems that way.”

 

The neighbor motions to his nose. “You’re still bleeding, by the way.”

 

“Oh, really?”

 

“Yeah, your teeth are red.”

 

Akaashi hides his mouth behind his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

 

“No problem,” the guy’s whole face brightens behind a wide smile and he slaps a hand on Akaashi’s shoulder. The strength of it almost sends him off balance. “Hang on a sec.”

 

Akaashi does, though he doesn’t know why.

 

The neighbor returns seconds later with a box of Kleenex. “Here,” he says, brandishing the box. Akaashi nods in thanks and takes a few tissues, wadding them up under his nose. He angles his head down, waiting for the flow to stop and watches as the neighbor takes a few tissues of his own and bends down to the floor to wipe at a few stray drops of blood.

 

“Ah, I can clean that.” Akaashi tells him, voice stuffy from his blocked up nose.

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the guy says, cleaning it all up in a few quick swipes. “Lucky I was here, huh?” He prompts once he’s standing again.

 

“Uh, sure,” Akaashi agrees, pulling the tissue from his nose but pressing it back again when he feels blood drip down to his chin. “Thanks for your help.”

 

Suddenly, there are hands on his face, big and rough and so warm. He shudders beneath them. “Bet you’re gonna have a gnarly bruise come morning.”

 

Akaashi shrugs.

 

“What kind of survival instincts were those, anyway? Stop, drop, and roll only works if you’re on fire.”

 

“I’ve never gotten into a fight before.”

 

The guy laughs. It’s strange hearing it in person and not through his floorboards.

 

“That’s obvious.”

 

“You guys alright back there?” The convenience store attendant calls from the register.

 

The neighbor’s head snaps to attention. “Yeah, we’re fine, thanks.” He turns back to Akaashi. “Is that all you were getting?” He motions to the coffee and melon pan tucked under Akaashi’s arm.

 

Akaashi lifts his chin in a half nod.

 

“Cool, I’ll pay, you wait outside, ‘kay?”

 

“No, you’ve done enough,” Akaashi tries to argue, but the guy is already tugging the slightly crushed bag from beneath his armpit.

 

“Seriously, man. You’re looking kinda pale.” He takes Akaashi’s elbow and half drags him to the door. “I’ll be there in like 2 seconds,” he promises with a smile and a thumbs-up.

 

Akaashi nods numbly and pushes the door open with trembling hands. Now that the adrenaline rush has waned, he realizes that he does feel slightly nauseated. He leans his back against the brick siding and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. Then he slides down into a crouch and leans his forehead into his knees, trying to take deep, measured breaths.

 

The cold night air feels good against his throbbing cheek, but it’s not enough to quell his nausea. His shoulders heave and he claps a hand to his mouth, scrambling to his feet and ducking around to the alleyway. There’s not much in his stomach, the taste is mostly the acrid tang of blood mixed with bitter stomach acid.

 

A bead of sweat rolls down his neck and he shivers and swipes at it. There’s the distant sound of bells chiming and the crunching of sneakers on pavement. “Hello? Bloody nose guy? Where’d you go?”

 

“Over here,” Akaashi chokes out. He’s surprised when the words leave his mouth. He could’ve just as easily stayed silent, the neighbor would’ve just assumed he’d gone home and then this awkward encounter could’ve ended.

 

Instead, the guy shuffles around the corner and lets out a gasp of pity before crouching next to Akaashi. He drops the plastic bag beside him and rubs Akaashi’s back when he starts dry heaving again. “You totally should go to the hospital.”

 

“No,” Akaashi coughs and wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. “I just swallowed too much blood. I’m fine.”

 

A bottle of water is pushed up against his cheek and Akaashi takes it and folds it into the crook of his neck.

 

“Are you gonna be able to make it home okay?”

 

“Hm?” Akaashi asks, uncapping the water bottle and taking a slow sip. It had never occurred to him that his neighbor hadn’t realized they were, well, neighbors. “Mm,” he hums an affirmative. “I live just across the street.”

 

“Oh, forreals? I just moved there!” The guys exclaims. “Today’s—“ he checks his phone, “the fifth, so I guess it’s my first month anniversary!”

 

“It’s the fifth?” Akaashi doesn’t wait for his neighbor to confirm before coughing into his fist and leaning his head back with a laugh. The sound that bubbles out of him is crackling and dry, like a page brutally torn from a journal and crumpled beneath the hands of the writer.

 

“What’s wrong?” His neighbor sounds frantic.

 

Akaashi holds his cheek, sore from smiling, and wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s my birthday.”

 

+

 

Akaashi wakes the next morning to a pounding at his door that matches the pounding in his head. He turns to the wall, prepared to ignore it, but then the knocking is replaced by a familiar voice.

 

“I know you’re in there, if you don’t answer I’ll call an ambulance.”

 

Akaashi groans and nuzzles his face into his mattress.

 

“Don’t think I won’t! If you died it’d like, totally drop the market value of the apartment complex, or someth—”

 

Akaashi throws open the door, hair wild and bed rumpled, oversized t-shirt drooping down over one shoulder, and traces of dried blood still flecked beneath his nose.  

 

His neighbor winces and gives a low whistle. “Morning, Starshine! You look awful.”

 

“Thanks,” Akaashi says and folds his arms over his chest.

 

“I’m Bokuto, by the way. Bokuto Koutarou.”

 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi repeats the name back. “Thanks for your concern, but—“

 

“You should ice your cheek.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You should also tell me _your_ name.”

 

The neighbor—Bokuto—is so clearly pleased with himself, smile bright and blinding and chest puffed out with his hands on his hips. Akaashi is tempted to close the door right in his face.

 

“Akaashi Keiji,” he says, instead. The guy looks strong and he knows where he lives. He doesn’t need a repeat of last night.

 

“Ah, it suits you!”

 

Akaashi leans his head on the doorframe and scowls.

 

“Akaashi, let’s get dinner tonight.”

 

Akaashi straightens back up and unfolds his arms. “I don’t—“

 

“It’s your birthday, right?”

 

“Yes, but—“

 

“Do you already have plans?”

 

Akaashi blinks at him. This is an opening, his chance to lie and get out of this unwanted social interaction. It surprises him when he opens his mouth, closes it, and shakes his head.

 

Bokuto’s eyes shine. “So let’s make up for last night, yeah?”

 

“That was—I think you’ve done enough.”

 

“It’s okay, I want to!” Bokuto gives a thumbs up. “I haven’t made friends with any neighbors, yet. It’s good to know people in the building, y’know? For safety reasons.” He leans out of the doorway, looks down the hallway, left, then right, and shrugs. “That’s what my Mom told me, anyway.”

 

Akaashi considers the words, mentally parsing through all the potential meanings at top speed. It could be the truth, maybe Bokuto is just an overly nice guy and he genuinely wants to have dinner with his neighbor. Although, he also knows that Akaashi is gay and newly single.

 

Akaashi wonders if this is a date. His stomach sinks.

 

“Meet you in the lobby at 8, then?” Bokuto asks, completely oblivious to Akaashi’s inner battle.

 

“Sure. See you then, Bokuto-san.”

 

Akaashi retreats into his apartment after a polite nod and leans his back onto his closed door. He heaves a sigh and thunks his head against the wood a few times. He doesn’t want to date anyone, and especially not his neighbor. He can already envision the fights in the hall, the intentional noise disturbances, the dirty stares from other residents.

 

He knows he’s getting ahead of himself. It’s a bad habit of his—sizing people up before he really gets the chance to know them. He’s aware of this flaw because so many exes have informed him of it.

 

So, despite his trepidation, he resigns himself to dinner and tries not to premeditate on the innumerable ways it could all go wrong.

 

+

 

Akaashi feels like an idiot.

 

He sits around a griddle, flanked by his neighbor and a guy with a shit eating grin and gravity defying hair. His armpits are sweating from the heat of the grill and he knows his carefully chosen button up and cardigan are going to smell like beef by the end of the night.

 

This is obviously not a date. His neighbor is obviously not gay. Akaashi doesn’t even feel particularly attracted to him. He’s handsome, sure, but there is no way their personalities could mesh. Anyway, Akaashi’s close to deciding to opt out of the whole love and relationships thing altogether. Which— _again_ —is irrelevant, because Bokuto is so very clearly _not_ gay.

 

“Akaashi-kun?”

 

Akaashi blinks and pulls himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry?” He asks, hoping they’ll think he couldn’t hear over the sizzle of the meat, rather than missing the conversation because he was spacing out.

 

“I was asking if you’re in school.” The guy with the tall black hair repeats.

 

Akaashi searches his memory banks for a name as he flips over a piece of beef. “Yeah, majoring in civil engineering.”

 

“Uooh! You must be smart!” Bokuto interjects, snapping his chopsticks in the air.

 

Akaashi shrugs, “it’s not hard, really. Lots of math, but—“

 

“I hate math,” Bokuto shudders and looks to his friend. “Don’t you hate math, Kuroo?”

 

Kuroo lowers his eyelids and raises an eyebrow. “Bro, doesn’t your major have a math requirement?”

 

Bokuto hides his blush by tipping his head back and laughing. “Not as much as engineering!”

 

Akaashi watches him carefully and takes a sip of beer. “What’s your major, Bokuto-san?”

 

“Psychology,” he answers, moving a piece of beef to his plate. “I want to be a sports psychologist.”

 

Akaashi notes his well-muscled forearms. “Are you an athlete?”

 

Bokuto beams and scratches the back of his head. “Well, I played a little volleyball in school.”

 

“A little?” Kuroo interrupts, punching Bokuto in the shoulder. “This guy was one of the top 5 spikers in the country!”

 

Akaashi’s eyes widen in interest. “Wow, that’s impressive.”

 

Bokuto looks to the side and gives an uncharacteristic shy laugh. “What about you, Akaashi? Did you play any sports in school?”

 

“Mm, I played volleyball, too, actually.”

 

“Ah, seriously?” Bokuto’s cheeks flush with excitement. “This guy did, too!” He says, gesturing at Kuroo. “We should totally meet up and play some time!”

 

“Bro, how can we play with just three people?”

 

“I don’t have time, anyway.” Akaashi shrugs.

 

“Oh,” Bokuto visibly wilts. “Okay.”

 

The conversation peters off then. The three look down at their plates, overwhelmed by the residual sound of restaurant chatter and the wet sizzle of the meat on their griddle.

 

Akaashi chances a look at Bokuto. He is surprised to see him looking so dejected. He’d seemed like the kind of guy that moved through the world with his head in the clouds, blissfully unaffected by the many hardships of life. It seems somehow wrong to see him hunched in on himself, face hardened behind a frown. Akaashi isn’t the type to become needlessly involved in the affairs of others, but he feels the need to do or say _something_ to fix it.

 

He clears his throat and looks to Kuroo. “Um, so…did Bokuto-san tell you how he saved me last night?”

 

That does it. Bokuto’s head jerks up—face bright with a grin—and he immediately launches into a highly exaggerated version of the previous night’s proceedings. Akaashi doesn’t correct him, even when Bokuto’s story paints him as a bumbling, uncoordinated idiot. He’s just relieved that the tension has cleared and equilibrium has been restored.  

 

They stay out later than Akaashi had intended. He’s had enough alcohol to make going home and finishing the math assignment he has due tomorrow seem like an impossible task.

 

“Steer clear of any crazy exes!” Kuroo smirks when they part ways.

 

“Dude, he’ll be fine, he’s got me with him!” Bokuto shouts, puffing his chest out and drawing the stares of a few amused passerby’s.

 

Akaashi rolls his eyes and sighs. He nods through a goodbye as Bokuto tugs Kuroo into a full-bodied hug and slaps him on the back. The two friends pull apart walking backwards, intermittently yelling “later, bro” and hooting until they are out of sight.

 

Meanwhile, Akaashi stares at his feet, careful to maintain at least a foot of distance from Bokuto. He walks a few paces ahead, faced forward, shoulders tense and squared.

 

He’s relieved when they finally reach the apartment building. He quickly clamors up the stairs, only turning around at the top to wish his dinner mate a quick thanks and goodbye before ducking into the safety of his apartment.

 

Akaashi half expects Bokuto to follow him up and knock on his door. He ignores the almost imperceptible surge of disappointment when he feels his floors shake with the telltale bass of music playing, instead.

 

+

 

“Hey, stranger! Your bruise is looking better!”

 

Akaashi is waiting at the bus stop when he hears the familiar lilt of his downstairs neighbor. He looks up from his book and folds his forefinger between the pages to save his spot.

 

It’s been a week since he’s last seen him. He isn’t avoiding him anymore. It’s not really necessary with his busy school and work schedule and penchant towards spending his free time in solitude.

 

Bokuto slumps onto the bench next to him, legs spread so wide his knee brushes Akaashi’s. “Have you been out of town?”

 

“Hm? No.”

 

“Oh,” Bokuto says and fold his arms behind his head. “I just haven’t seen you around lately.”

 

Akaashi scoots closer to the end of the bench. “I’ve been preparing for finals.”

 

“That makes sense,” Bokuto bobs his head up and down. “Do you have any plans for Christmas break?”

 

Akaashi gives up on reading and slides his book into the satchel on his knees. “Just to get more hours in at work.”

 

“Won’t you visit with your family?”

 

“We don’t really get along well, so—“ Akaashi notices Bokuto’s expression starting to darken and immediately changes course. “We care about each other, we just—we have different politics.”

 

Bokuto pats Akaashi on the knee and Akaashi’s stomach shudders from the touch.

 

“Do you like croquettes, Akaashi?”

 

“Uh, I guess so?” Akaashi answers, tilting his head to look at Bokuto. “I like them fine.”

 

“My Mom makes the best croquettes you’ve ever tasted. I’ll bring you some, kay?”

 

Bokuto’s smile is so bright and genuine that Akaashi’s mouth pulls into a grin despite himself. “Yeah, thanks. That sounds nice.”

 

“Uooh!” Bokuo gasps and lurches back, hands cupped over his mouth. “Your smile is so cute!”

 

Akaashi’s cheeks immediately ignite and he jerks his face to the side to hide it.

 

“Sorry, sorry! I meant manly!” Bokuto corrects, waving his hands in front of his chest. “Your cute smile is super manly!”

 

Akaashi snorts into his fist and gives a short chuckle. “It’s fine,” he says, turning back when his cheeks have cooled. “You’re very honest, Bokuto-san.”

 

Bokuto scratches the back of his head and sticks out his tongue. “Hopefully, it’s part of my charm.”

 

Akaashi distantly wonders if he is flirting, but pushes the thought away. “I guess it just depends on the circumstance.”

 

Bokuto hums and nods slowly, looking a little deflated.

 

“Hey!” He says after a few awkwardly silent seconds. “Did you get my invite for the party this weekend?”

 

“Yeah,” Akaashi says, adjusting his backpack on his knees.

 

“You coming?”

 

“I don’t think so. I still have some exams to study for.”

 

Bokuto wilts further. “Really? You should come! You don’t have to stay long.”

 

“I don’t—“

 

“It’ll be too loud for you to study, anyway.”

 

Akashi looks at him, face lined with irritation. “Is that so?”

 

Bokuto winces and rub his neck. “We’ll have alcohol!”

 

Akaashi wonders if that’s meant to be an incentive.

 

“We’ll see.” He says, though he knows it’s a lie.

 

“I’ll look forward to it, then!” Bokuto beams.

 

Akaashi has the decency to feel guilty.

 

+

 

Akaashi is drumming his fingers on his knees, staring at his reflection in the bus window. He had aimed to be home hours ago, to be safe in the confines of his apartment before Christmas party hell could get into full swing in the apartment below.

 

Unfortunately, his Concrete Structures professor had decided to treat the class by taking them around the city for ‘real life experience,’ setting forth a chain of misfortune including a fender bender and an ungodly traffic jam that made Akaashi certain the universe was conspiring against him.

 

When he finally steps off at the bus stop near his home, the party has been going on for a good hour and a half. He stretches his mouth into a grim line and walks towards the entranceway.

 

He can already hear the music when he enters the stairwell. ‘White Christmas’ thrums through the wall in a steady crescendo as he slowly ascends to his floor. The chattering and laughing is decipherable once he passes the first floor landing. Bokuto’s door is wide open, his guests interspersed through the hallway and slumped on stairs and each other, red solo cups in hand.

 

Akaashi takes a steadying breath and tucks his chin near his chest, trying to pass through as discreetly as possible. He’s almost passed through the crowd when a hand grabs him by his bag strap, pulling him back into the din.

 

He’s not surprised to see Bokuto when he turns around. His eyes are glossy from alcohol and even more heavy-lidded than usual, but his smile is as disarming as ever. “I thought you weren’t coming!” He yells over an especially over produced version of ‘Marshmallow World.’

 

“You thought right.” Akaashi says, wrenching his satchel out of Bokuto’s grasp. “I’m just passing through.”

 

“Aw c’mon, bro, don’t be a party pooper.”

 

Akaashi peers past his shoulder and sees a particularly inebriated brunette stumble into a wall and crumple to the floor, laughing when he takes a lamp down with him. Akaashi winces and takes a step back. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

 

“Just one drink, c’mon,” Bokuto insists, grabbing Akaashi by the bicep and pulling him into his apartment. They almost trip over a kid sprawled on the floor near the door. He’s leaned up against the wall, legs stretched out in front him, completely immersed in a video game.

 

“There’s no way that guy’s old enough to drink.” Akaashi mumbles, watching him over his shoulder.

 

“Aw he’s fine, he’s fine.” Bokuto dismisses it with a wave of the hand. “Bro!” He shouts when they enter the kitchen. Kuroo is standing over a table of assorted colored alcohols and a giant punchbowl filled with a mystery cranberry hued beverage. “Akaashi’s gonna have a drink with us!”

 

Kuroo sneers and ladles some of the punchbowl contents into a solo cup. “Enjoy the holiday cheer.” He hands the drink over with a wink.

 

Akaashi holds his palms in front of his chest. “No thanks. It’s all yours,” he says, looking up at Bokuto.

 

Bokuto takes the cup and holds it near Akaashi’s face. “C’mo-on. Celebrate with us, Akaashi!”

 

‘Baby Please Come Home’ starts playing and Akaashi sighs audibly. “I really can’t, Bokuto-san, if you could just—“ He tries to pull himself away at the exact moment Bokuto grips an arm around his shoulder. They stumble over their feet and start to tip to the side, but are saved by Akaashi bracing them upright with his forearm against the wall. The only casualty is his shirt: soaked from collar to hip in a heaping dose of dark red holiday cheer.

 

Bokuto jumps back into a half squat. For a second, Akaashi worries he’s about to be tackled. Instead, Bokuto grips his face in his hands and his eyes glow bright with guilt. “I’m so sorry!” He wails.

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Akaashi looks down at his shirt and grimaces. “I just—I’m going to go now.”

 

Bokuto shakes his head and plants the solo cup on the table. “I can clean it!”

 

Akaashi pulls the sopping shirt away from his skin and fans it out. “My apartment is just upstairs, it’s fine.”

 

“Let me do this,” Bokuto pleads, taking Akaashi’s hands in his owns. Akaashi can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “I can’t live with myself if I don’t fix this.”

 

“It’s just a stain.” Akaashi draws his eyebrows together. He is skeptical, but Bokuto looks so dejected he finds it hard to deny him. He doesn’t want to feel responsible if Bokuto acts out in an alcohol-fueled fit of despair, especially not over something as inconsequential as a shirt stain. So, despite his better judgment, he begrudgingly follows him the bathroom.

 

“Take off your shirt.” Bokuto turns on the faucet, spinning the knob as cold as it will go.

 

Akaashi complies without argument. It’s strange having someone stare daggers at him while he unbuttons his shirt. His fingers slip a few times, shaking minutely under Bokuto’s attentive gaze. When he finally manages the task, he hands the soaked garment to Bokuto and slumps on the closed toilet lid.

 

“This won’t take it out completely, but if you wash it with detergent right after, it should do the trick.” Bokuto explains, holding the shirt under the water.

 

“Did your Mom teach you this?” Akaashi asks, leaning an elbow on the counter. He tilts his head into his hand and watches Bokuto meticulously knead at the reddened fabric.

 

“Ha!” Bokuto laughs and wrings out the water. “More like I learned it to keep her from knowing I was drinking.”

 

Akaashi huffs a laugh, rubbing at his forearms when he feels goose pimples blooming on his skin from exposure. “You’re old enough, aren’t you?”

 

The task seems to have sobered Bokuto. His eyes are more focused when he smiles and nods. “Yeah, but she worries. That’s what Moms do best, y’know?”

 

Akaashi hums noncommittally. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ know, it’s just that his Mom’s worries were less about his safety and more about his job prospects and whether or not he would get over his—as she put it—‘dating boys phase.’

 

“This should just about do it,” Bokuto says, wringing the excess water from the shirt and flapping it out a few times. He tries to fold it but then gives up and sort of balls it up before handing it to Akaashi.

 

“Thanks Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says. He starts to stand, but then looks down at his bare chest. “Um…do you think I could borrow a shirt?”

 

“Ah! Of course!” Bokuto says, slapping himself on the forehead like he’s the world’s biggest fool. He starts to pull his own shirt off, only for Akaashi to grab him by the arms and force him to stop.

 

“A clean shirt preferably.”

 

Bokuto gives a stilted laugh and waves his hand dismissively. “Of course, I knew that.”

 

He stumbles to his closet and pulls out a gaudy turquoise and hot pink Hawaiian print button up. Akaashi puts it on without argument. Bokuto is trailing after him as he starts to leave, begging Akaashi to stay for “just one drink—half a drink—a thimble of a drink. He’ll be good he promises.”

 

Akaashi almost breaks when he grabs onto his shirttail and pouts, but then he stumbles over the legs of the video game kid from before. The guy is still occupied, but this time by the mouth of an equally small redheaded boy. Akaashi audibly sighs and rubs at his eye.

 

“I’m going.” He says with enough finality that Bokuto doesn’t argue.

 

He straightens back up and frowns a little. “Fine. I guess if you have to.”

 

Akaashi nods and starts for the door.

 

“But come by any time, okay?”

 

“Sure, Bokuto-san.”

 

“I owe you one. Y’know, for the shirt.”

 

“Okay, Bokuto-san. Thanks.”

 

In the end, even after washing, the stain doesn’t come out. Akaashi can’t bring himself to mind.

 

+

 

Halfway through January, Akaashi’s hot water heater stops working. He puts in a maintenance request the next day, but apparently the cold weather is causing copious amounts of problems more pressing than his own, because a solid week goes by without repair.

 

He adapts by washing his body at top speed and then leaning just his head into the frigid water to shampoo his hair. It’s an inconvenient but not entirely unbearable situation.

 

When two weeks go by without hot water and temperatures reach record lows, he’s leaving irritated messages with apartment management twice a day and hiding his unwashed hair beneath woolen beanies.

 

Still, he doesn’t reach his breaking point until Sunday night. He’s been trying to study for a test on Monday, but bending over his table, straining his eyes against the dim light, has caused one of his—thankfully rare—but nonetheless excruciatingly painful tension headaches.

 

He tries to ignore it. Then, when that fails, he tries to do some stretches he looked up on the Internet once—rolling his head from side to side, breathing deep and exhaling slowly. It doesn’t really do much but exacerbate the ache in his joints and the encroaching chill in his hands and feet.

 

He knows what he wants—what he _needs_. He knew it even before the ache settled into his neck. Akaashi pushes himself from the table with a clatter and walks none too lightly to the bathroom. He leans into the shower stall and forces the knob as far to the left as it will go before yanking it forward. He lets a good half-minute go by, tapping his foot on the ground and sighing, before sticking his hand under the stream, hoping and praying that by some miracle, the water temperature he checked only this morning will be fixed.

 

It isn’t, of course. He yanks his hand back with a curse and holds it protectively to his chest, as if it were acid and not water he’d doused it with. There’s a thump downstairs and the distinct sound of Bokuto playing video games—Mario Kart, he’d guess. That, or Bokuto is inexplicably angry at bananas.

 

Akaashi finds himself staring at the floorboards, fantasizing about the working shower beneath them. He stands there for an exorbitant amount of time, chewing his bottom lip, fiddling with his fingers, mentally battling between his pain and his desire to maintain distance—both physical and emotional—between him and his neighbor.

 

The war is lost when a pulse of pain shoots up his neck—so painful it makes his arm spasm. He rallies himself with a sniff and a shoulder roll before pacing from the bathroom, through the living room, out the door, and down the hallway stairs.

 

He knocks on the door of the apartment below his own and his heart beats louder and louder with each passing second. He’s close to bolting when he hears footsteps. Suddenly, the door is thrust open with a whoosh of warm air.  

 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto looks surprised to see his visitor. “How’ve you been?”

 

Akaashi sighs and rubs at his neck. “Hey, good. Um…I’m so sorry to ask this, but can I borrow your shower?”

 

Bokuto tilts his head in confusion but steps out of the way to let Akaashi inside.

 

“My hot water heater isn’t working. I’d use the showers at the school gym but they’re closed at this hour and I’ve got a tension headache to end all tension headaches. I just—“ Akaashi takes a deep breath, feet still planted outside Bokuto’ apartment. “I _need_ a hot shower.”

 

Bokuto blinks and then laughs. “I think that’s the most I’ve heard you say at one time.” He grabs Akaashi by the sleeve and pulls him through the threshold. “You don’t have to explain yourself, mi shower es tu shower.” He scratches at his cheek. “Or, y’know, whatever the Spanish word for ‘shower’ is.”

 

Akaashi bows his head in appreciation. “Thank you, you’re a saint.”

 

Bokuto closes the door behind him. “You must be in serious pain to admit that.”

 

“You have no idea.” Akaashi closes his eyes and kneads his forehead.

 

“It’s cause you study too much.”

 

“I’d argue but I don’t have the energy.”

 

“Well, don’t let me hold you up.” Bokuto points to the bedroom. “Shower is right through—well, I guess you already know.”

 

Akaashi nods.

 

“There are clean towels in the linen closet.”

 

“Thank you, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says, wasting no time in making for his long-awaited refuge.

 

The hot water is heaven. He closes his eyes and angles it into the crook of his neck, willing the throbbing tension from his shoulders. He could easily stand there for an hour, swathed in the thick, relaxing heat, but his long ingrained sense of etiquette forces him from the shower after only 20 minutes.

 

When he’s done, he feels better and fully clean for the first time in weeks. The vestiges of his headache remain, but it is downgraded to a dull thrumming—uncomfortable but manageable.

 

“How was it?” Bokuto asks when Akaashi exits the bathroom, flanked in steam with wet curls stuck to his forehead.

 

“Good, thank you.”

 

Bokuto smiles as if he is personally responsible for the concept of hot showers. He gestures at two steaming mugs on his coffee table. “I made hot chocolate if you have a minute.”

 

Akaashi wants to refuse—he still has an article on soil mechanics to read through and the shower has left him feeling achy and lethargic. Still, he feels like he owes Bokuto this much for the generous use of his bathroom, so he pads over and slumps next to him on the couch.

 

Bokuto picks up his mug and slurps it loudly. Akaashi notices the tv has been turned off and the overhead light has been exchanged for the soft illumination of a floor lamp.

 

He picks up his own mug when he feels Bokuto eyeing him. He wraps his hands around the smooth ceramic, enjoying the heat leeching into his palms for a few seconds before blowing away the steam and taking a short sip. The taste is rich and creamy. He runs his tongue across his front teeth and leans his head so his neck is stretched over the back of the couch cushion.

 

“Headache still there?” Bokuto asks.

 

“Mm. Yeah, but it’s not as bad as it was.”

 

Bokuto places his drink on the coffee table. “I can give you a massage, if it would help.”

 

Akaashi straightens back up. “Thanks for the offer, but—“

 

“I have golden hands,” Bokuto insists, brandishing his palms in front of him like an actor in a Shakespeare play. “I used to give my teammates massages all the time.”

 

Akaashi looks between Bokuto’s wide, earnest eyes and his large outstretched hands. He’s convinced it’s a bad idea to allow this but he’s not sure why. After a few silent seconds, he puts his drink down and relents with a shrug. “I guess if you don’t mind…”

 

“Not at all!” Bokuto says quickly, jumping up from the couch to position himself behind Akaashi.

 

His hands are every bit as strong and firm as Akaashi would’ve guessed them to be. “Where does it hurt most?” He asks, kneading his knuckles into the slopes of Akaashi’s shoulders.

 

Akaashi bites the inside of his lip and scrunches his eyes together. “My neck and the back of—“ his words break off with a hiss when Bokuto pushes his thumbs into the base of his head. “R-right there.” He manages, digging his nails into his knees.

 

“Do you get these a lot? Bokuto asks, rubbing slow circles into the sides of Akaashi’s neck.

 

“Since middle school,” Akaashi confirms. He can feel the vice around his head loosen under Bokuto’s touch.

 

“That long?” Bokuto combs his fingers through Akaashi’s soft, slightly damp curls. The sensation is simultaneously soothing and discomforting. “Have you ever gone to the doctor about it?”

 

Akaashi scoffs a little at that. “Everyone gets stressed, it’s not a big deal.”

 

“Yeah, but—“ Bokuto’s words are interrupted by a knock at the door. “Oh! Hold that thought.”

 

Akaashi straightens up and rubs at his neck, watching Bokuto’s back as he jogs to the door. It’s a marvel to him that Bokuto just opens his apartment to people in the middle of the night. Akaashi has the tendency to freeze in unease at the sound of someone merely passing his home, let alone requesting entry.

 

When Bokuto swings the door open, fast and uninhibited, Kuroo is there. He has his elbow propped on the shoulder of a guy a few inches shorter than him but more muscular looking and clean-cut. “Bro, why’s it so dark in here?” Kuroo saunters through the threshold and flips on the entryway light. “Were you about to go to bed? It’s not even midnight!”

 

Bokuto puts a finger in front of his lips to hush him and turns the light back off. “Akaashi’s here, he has a headache.”

 

“Akaashi?” Kuroo takes Bokuto by the shoulder and pushes him to the side to clear his view of the couch. “Yo Akaashi! How’s it hanging?”

 

“Hello, Kuroo-san.” Akaashi rises to his feet and lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “I was just leaving.”

 

“What? You don’t need to go!” Bokuto walks back into the living room and takes Akaashi by the shoulder, gently guiding him back to the couch.

 

“Yeah, why don’t you hang out with us for a bit!” Kuroo smiles then. It makes him look calculating and sly. Akaashi thinks it is unlike Bokuto’s in every way.

 

“I wish I could, but I’ve got work to finish.” He removes Bokuto’s hand from his shoulder and looks him in the eyes with a curt nod. “Thanks for the use of your shower.”

 

“Y-yeah.” Bokuto’s shoulders slump as he watches Akaashi go. Kuroo’s companion shoots daggers at him and jabs an elbow in his ribs.

 

Akaashi pretends not to see it, but he digs his nails into his palms as he marches up the stairs. He feels tense, like if he stops, he’ll be consumed. By what, he isn’t sure, but the hair stands up on the back of his neck, anyway, and his blood roars violently in his ears.

 

It’s the feeling of guilt he decides when he enters his home and slumps into a kitchen chair. Bokuto and Kuroo’s voices float up through the floorboards. The words are indecipherable but the tone is light, upbeat. It eases Akaashi’s heart to hear it.

 

He tucks his head into his folded arms and closes his eyes. Christmas is soon, but he can’t bring himself to regret the decision to spend it alone. He doesn’t miss his family. He doesn’t miss his exes, nor does he think his life would be better with any one of them in it. He thinks he could come to miss this, though.

 

He blames his sentimentality on the cold. It’s normal to yearn for the heat of others when it’s so goddamn freezing. Akaashi tries not to think of Bokuto’s eyes—molten drops of fiery amber that somehow manage to burn even brighter when he smiles. He doesn’t think of the warm lilt in his voice. He definitely doesn’t think of the tingling heat of Bokuto’s hands in his hair.

 

Akaashi shivers, draws his arms closer to him, and thinks for the first time in days that he could do with a cold shower.

 

+

 

Akaashi’s shower is fixed the following week, just in time for the city to be blanketed in a freak snowstorm that shuts down the University and leaves his electricity situation precarious at best.

 

Akaashi, like most sane people, spends his days cuddled beneath a shroud of blankets, thanking every deity he can name that he chose to rent a place with a gas fireplace.

 

He’s slouched in front of it, on the precipice of a nap, when a thundering up the stairs yanks him back to wakefulness. He stares at the door, trying to work out if the noise was a product of dream or reality, when he hears it again—this time in a downward trajectory.

 

Akaashi knits his eyebrows and straightens up, letting his woolen blanket slip from his shoulders and pool into his lap. The noise goes by again, this time up the stairs, and Akaashi scrambles to his feet and slips quietly across the wooden floor in his socks. He presses his ear against the door and waits for the familiar clamor.

 

It doesn’t take long. A minute or two of waiting and he hears a distant rumble and feels the floor shaking underfoot. He moves his eye in front of his peephole just in time to see a flash of white and black.

 

He pushes the door open and yells up the stairs after his neighbor. “Bokuto-san?”

 

Bokuto turns around at the next landing but doesn’t stop jogging in place, pushing his knees up towards his abdomen. “Akaashi!” He huffs, running back down to his upstairs neighbor’s doorway. “How are you on this snowy day?”

 

“Bokuto-san, what are you doing?”

 

“Just—“ he continues to jog, huffing and puffing with his fists balled at his sides—“getting some exercise in!”

 

“I can see that,” Akaashi says, folding his arms over his chest to conserve body heat. “But why in the stairwell?”

 

“Well—“ Bokuto finally stops running and leans an arm against Akaashi’s doorframe to catch his breath. “I’ve been going kinda stir crazy stuck in the apartment, but it’s impossible to make it to the gym in two feet of snow.” He explains, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Trust me, I tried.”

 

“I’m actually sort of interested in this story.” Akaashi smirks.

 

“Let’s just say I’m pretty sure I’ve got ass bruises my children will inherit.” Bokuto admits, eyes sparkling behind a wide smile when Akaashi chuckles into his fist.

 

Bokuto puffs out his chest and plants his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you join me, Akaashi?”

 

“Why, do I look like I need the exercise?” Akaashi lifts an eyebrow.

 

“N-no! You look great!” Bokuto takes a step back, as if doing so will set the world in retrograde. “I just think it’d be fun!”

 

“As great as that sounds, I’ve got work to do.” Akaashi doesn’t try to hide the skepticism in his voice.

 

“Oh, c’mon, you’re always doing schoolwork. Just a quick race?”

 

“Well, I’m a student,” Akaashi reminds. “And it seems like I’m at an unfair disadvantage, you being one of the top 5 spikers in the country and all.”

 

“You remember that?”

 

Akaashi shrugs.

 

“That was back in high school,” Bokuto waves a dismissive hand. “But I’ll give you a head start if you’re scared.”

 

Akaashi shakes his head in disbelief that Bokuto would resort to taunting him, and worse, that he’s considering falling for it. “Fine.” He relents, bending down to pull on the sneakers lined in the genkan. “But if we get a noise complaint, I’m blaming you.”

 

“Seriously?” Bokuto laughs.

 

“Consider yourself thrown under the bus.”

 

Bokuto flattens his palm over his chest in mock offence. “Cold as ice.”

 

“Colder than the ice that broke your ass.” Akaashi agrees.

 

Bokuto laughs so hard Akaashi swears he can hear icicles cracking off his windowsill.

 

“So what are the rules?” Akaashi asks as he moves down to the basement level of the stairs, Bokuto at his heels.

 

“Hmm,” Bokuto considers. “First one to the top and bottom twice wins?”

 

Akaashi glances behind him. “Only twice?”

 

“You were the one who said he has work to do.” Bokuto smiles slyly.

 

“Right.” Akaashi clears his throat. He hopes his blush can be convincingly blamed on the cold. “Two times it is. What are we competing for?”

 

“You wanna make a wager?”

 

Akaashi steps on the cemented basement floor and bends to re-tie his shoe. “Why not?”

 

“Okay, well,” Bokuto leans back on the stair railing and folds a fist under his chin. “How about—loser makes the winner dinner.”

 

Akaashi stands and brushes debris from his knees. “Can you cook?”

 

“No, but I don’t intend to lose.” Bokuto declares, golden eyes flashing.

 

Akaashi rolls his eyes but his thin smile dampens the effect.

 

“Do you need to warm up first?” Bokuto asks. He extends an arm into the air and stretches his torso from side to side

 

“I’m warm enough.” Akaashi says, although the subsequent shiver down his back betrays the truth.

 

Bokuto lowers his arms and pulls his t-shirt down. “If you say so,” he smiles, eyebrows waggling. He lines his toe against the bottom step and bends his knee into starting position, waiting for Akaashi to follow suit before beginning the countdown.

 

“Ready?” He asks.

 

Akaashi lines up next to Bokuto. “Get on with it, already.”

 

“Okay. On your mark, get set—“

 

Bokuto takes off before he says, “go,” laughing in staccato “oh ho ho’s” as he races his way up the stairs. Akaashi curses and flies after him, taking the steps two at a time to try and catch up.

 

Bokuto’s head start doesn’t last long. He is muscular and strong, but Akaashi is lithe and fast. He traverses the stairs with ease, feet landing light and precise until he shoulders his way past his racing partner and skirts around the top corridor to make his way back down.

 

Endorphins flood his brain and he feels his heart swell in his chest. A giggle works its way from his throat as he wraps a hand around the railing and jumps over a set of stairs, landing with ease on the floor below. It feels good to run around like this—to be reckless. He’s probably annoying his neighbors, and he’ll worry about that, but—later.

 

For now, he wants to relish the moment, and just—

 

“Having fun?” Bokuto asks through panting breaths. Akaashi startles a little. He hadn’t realized he was so close. “Hope you’re thinking about what’s on the menu tonight.”

 

“Sure, what do you plan on making?” Akaashi grins, wide and cheeky. He springs off the bottom wall and starts back towards the top again. He can hear Bokuto on his heels, but he ignores it, pushing his calves till they burn, moving up and up and up.

 

They’re neck and neck when they dart back down again. Akaashi is a nose ahead when they near the bottom. He thinks he’s bound to win it, but then a door opens, a reprimanding voice yells out, and Akaashi’s knee—so close to the cement floor—wobbles in surprise. He grabs onto the wall and Bokuto’s arm for purchase, but his momentum sends them both tumbling and cursing and laughing to the floor below.

 

“Sorry,” Bokuto calls back up the stairs when their bodies have stilled into a sweaty tangle of limbs. The door closes again with a bang and Akaashi rolls onto his back, panting and suppressing a laugh. “You okay, Akaashi?”

 

Akaashi nods and pulls himself into a seated position. “Fine. You, Bokuto-san?”

 

“I guess there’s no winner,” Bokuto whines, ignoring the question. He screws his mouth up and turns his nose to the floor. “I was looking forward to trying your cooking, too.”

 

Akaashi stands and offers Bokuto a hand. “I don’t mind cooking.” He relents, snorting at the look of complete elation alighting his neighbor’s face.

 

Bokuto takes Akaashi’s hand and stands with a grunt. “Forreals?”

 

Akaashi pulls his hand back to his side and rubs his palm on his pants. “I have to make myself dinner, anyway.” He shrugs. “And I guess I kind of owe you.”

 

“For what?” Bokuto asks, following Akaashi up the stairs like an overexcited puppy.

 

Akaashi doesn’t feel like listing the reasons, so he turns on his heel in front of Bokuto’s door and fixes him with a weary glare. “I’m trying to be nice, here. You’re not making it easy.”

 

Bokuto looks smug. He pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe his sweaty face. “Yeah, it looked like you were really struggling.”

 

“So do you accept or not?”

 

“Of course!” Bokuto says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world

 

Akaashi opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again and presses his lips into a thin line. “We’re having curry,” He says, continuing up the stairs to his floor. “Be there at 8.”

 

+

 

“Akaashi’s apartment.” Bokuto breathes when he walks through the threshold, turning his head this way and that in wide-eyed reverence.

 

“Yeah, it—looks like yours.”

 

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees with a laugh, dropping the act. “More books, though.”

 

Akaashi picks up a novel laying facedown on the couch armrest and closes it, placing it on the coffee table. “I like reading.”

 

“And all this time I thought you were up here being studious,” Bokuto says, drawing nearer to his crammed bookcase.

 

Akaashi doesn’t comment.

 

Bokuto traces a finger down the cracked spine of an apparently well-loved volume. “Reading’s cool. I never really had the attention span for it, though. I prefer—“

 

“Video games.” Akaashi finishes for him.

 

Bokuto laughs good-naturedly. “Right. If you’re ever in the mood for some Mario Kart—“

 

“I don’t know, Bokuto-san. From the sound of it, you have serious road rage problems.”

 

“Those stupid turtle shells!” Bokuto declares, shaking a fist in the air for emphasis.

 

“Thank goodness for public transportation.”

 

“I don’t think turtle shells are really an everyday road hazard.”

 

Akaashi moves to the stove to stir the curry. “Are you saying I should trust you behind a wheel?”

 

“Hell no, I don’t even have my license.” Bokuto follows Akaashi into the kitchen. “But I could get it if I wanted it!”

 

“I do believe that’s how it works.”

 

“Right.” Bokuto laughs and leans against the wall. “Is there anything I can help with?”

 

“Not really, the food’s basically done.” Akaashi tilts his chin up as he thinks and chews on his thumbnail. It’s a bad habit he has when concentrating that he’s never fully overcome. “You could set the table.”

 

“Sure!”

 

“Plates and glasses are in the middle cabinet and cutlery is in the left drawer.”

 

Bokuto whistles while he makes his way around the kitchen. His shoulder brushes Akaashi’s when he reaches for the plates and Akaashi has to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from jerking away.

 

“It smells so-o good!” Bokuto slumps into a chair once he’s finished setting the table and leans back, arms folded behind his head and eyes closed in bliss.

 

“I’m glad, but if you think I’m serving you, you’re deluded.”

 

Bokuto hops up and grabs his plate. “Speaking of serving—“

 

Akaashi groans and ladles curry onto his plate.

 

“What position did you play when you were in volleyball club?”

 

“Setter.” Akaashi says simply, depositing a scoopful of rice next to the curry. “What do you want to drink?”

 

Bokuto looks over his shoulder from where he is piling curry onto his own plate. “Water is fine.”

 

Akaashi nods and takes the pitcher from the fridge.

 

“Were you any good?” Bokuto asks. He licks sauce from his thumb and returns to the table.

 

Akaashi hands him a glass of water and shrugs. “Just average, really.”

 

“Don’t sell yourself short!” Bokuto tells him, shoveling an impossibly large spoonful of food into his mouth. He chews it happily and presses his palm to his flushed cheek. “Mmm yummy.”

 

“Good,” Akaashi says, taking a sip of water.

 

Bokuto eats quickly, glancing up intermittently to stare questioningly at Akaashi’s face. “You’re like—administrating, y’know? So I bet your skill is more in, like, strategy.”

 

“I think you mean ‘analytical,’” Akaashi corrects, taking a bite of his own food. He doesn’t bother to tell him he’s right.

 

“See? That’s what I mean!”

 

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t play anymore.”

 

“But are you opposed to playing again, just for fun?”

 

Akaashi considers it. He doesn’t particularly mind, he actually sort of misses volleyball. Yet somehow, it still feels awkward to admit it out loud. “Maybe,” he says finally. Turning his eyes down to his food when Bokuto fixes him with an excited smile. “But not until break.”

 

“It’d be hard to get the guys together before then, anyway.” Bokuto admits. He takes a few more bites of food, humming happily, and then lifts his arms the air, waving his hands around in a fit of joy. “I’m so excited for spring!”

 

Akaashi rubs the back of his thumb with his index and middle finger and smirks. “Me too.” He admits. He’s surprised to find it’s true.

 

+

 

Akaashi sits leaned back on his couch, unopened book on his chest, opened Christmas card on his coffee table. His foot hangs off the side, shaking so fast it’s making the couch bump against the wall. He stares at shadows over his head, straining his eyes till they grow blurry at the edges. He hears Bokuto downstairs, chatting with someone. He can’t quite make out the words, but his tone his light, cheery. He sounds fired up. He sounds happy.

 

Akaashi smiles a little. He finds he wishes Bokuto was in his apartment so he could see the face behind the jovial voice.

 

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, his heart lurches into his throat and he thrusts himself into a seated position. Never in his life does he remember preferring the company of others to the safe confines of solitude.

 

Distance is easier than constantly being on guard, making sure his company is content and reassuring them that he is in turn. He’s never found it easy to accept affection from others. He remembers his Mother’s awkward attempts to comfort him. She and his father provided in every way a parent should. Akaashi never truly wanted for anything. Not materially, anyway. They never hit him, but they never really embraced him, either. Theirs was a house of nods and semi-annual side-hugs. They didn’t discuss their personal lives. They didn’t say, “I love you.”

 

It still feels wrong in many ways to say it, let alone feel it.

 

Still, Akaashi isn’t so sure that his memory accurately reflects reality. There was pressure to do well, he was warned against mediocrity, but those things weren’t wholly uncommon in his parents’ social circle. It certainly didn’t stop many of his classmates from moving on to forming relationships and starting families.

 

Blaming his parents is just an easy out. Akaashi thinks it’s just as likely that his mother was every bit as loving and tender as a mother should be—that it was instead his need to be and appear faultless that rendered him unable to accept her ministration. Maybe it was that same limitation that made his stomach turn whenever one of his exes would try to touch him.

 

He couldn’t shoulder the guilt of never being perfect. In many ways, he still can’t.

 

Yet, there he is, sitting up on the couch, one arm braced against the back and the other fisted into the cushion. He hears Bokuto’s laugh echo up from below and he doesn’t know if the accompanying feeling is one of terror or immense relief.

 

He gets up and lifts the Christmas card from the table.

 

“Dear Keiji, Merry Christmas. From, Mother and Father.” It reads.

 

He hadn’t expected more. It’s not even that big of a deal. They sent him a card, that’s more than many of his friends could say of their parents. Still, the “from” bothers him. He is from them, _of_ them, but he doesn’t feel a part of them.

 

He holds the card over the trashcan, but the distant sound of laughter sounds and he breaks and puts it in the junk drawer, instead.

 

+

 

“Akaashi! Come, look!” Akaashi is pulled from sleep by light tapping at his door.

 

He’s fallen asleep on the couch in the midst of studying. When he sits up, his notes stick to his face, adhered to his cheek with drool. He wrenches them off and lets them fall to the floor, staggering across the living room to unlock the front door.

 

When the door is opened, Bokuto wastes no time before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him towards the kitchen.

 

“Bokuto-san, what’s wrong?” Akaashi asks, stumbling over his feet in a half daze.

 

“Look!” Bokuto breathes, his warm breath fogging the window.

 

Akaashi leans his nose towards the glass and squints. “I don’t see anything.”

 

“Right there—“ Bokuto insists, pointing toward a lamppost. “Ah, hold on.” He says, running around the apartment to turn off all the lights. “Now look,” He says when he returns.

 

It still takes Akaashi a few seconds to spot it, but when he does, he takes a sharp intake of breath that makes Bokuto exclaim, “right!?”

 

Akaashi doesn’t reply. He is totally captivated. He’s never seen an owl in person before. He’d certainly never expected to see one in the city, even if it is the dead of night. Yet there it sits, still and stoic, perched on the crest of a lamppost. It’s hard to make out the details from where he stands, but it’s easy to differentiate the eyes—big and round and golden.

 

“It looks like you,” Akaashi says before he can convince himself not to.

 

Bokuto laughs. “You think so?”

 

“Mm. Thanks for showing me, Bokuto-san.”

 

Bokuto turns towards him with a smile, then jerks back a little and covers his mouth to suppress a giggle. “You’ve, g-got a little something there.” He says, reaching up to rub a thumb against Akaashi’s cheek.

 

Akaashi’s eyes go wide and he pulls away from the touch. He turns his face to the window and catches a glimpse of his reflection. His pale skin is etched with the backwards text of his blue-penned notes. He sighs and rubs at his face with his sleeve.

 

“I should go to bed.”

 

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees. “Night, owl-chan,” he whispers out the window with a wave. “Night, Akaashi.” He grins, patting Akaashi on the shoulder with a wink before letting himself into the hall.

 

Akaashi drops his hand from his face when the door closes and rubs at his shoulder. “Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”

 

+

 

On Valentine’s Day, Akaashi is pulled from his reading by the sound of the smoke detector going off in the apartment below. He tries to ignore it by aligning his fingertips and tapping them together, but his curiosity ultimately wins out and he’s shuffling to the door after only a few seconds.

 

When Bokuto answers, Akaashi is immediately accosted by the full volume shrill of the smoke alarm and the overwhelming stench of burning chocolate.

 

“Akaashi-i,” Bokuto cries, dropping his face into his palms in a dramatic display. “I totally screwed it up. I’ve never baked before—like not _real_ baking, you know? Only cookies from the packs at the store—you know the sugar ones with the little pictures—but I thought it’d be basically the same thing and my Mom gave me a recipe and I followed it exactly but then I opened the oven and the alarm started and I dropped the pan and I don’t know what to do, I’ll never bake again in my life!”

 

Akaashi steps in and toes his shoes off in the genkan. He walks to the kitchen, followed by a hunched Bokuto, frowning and clutching at the front of his shirt.

 

The situation isn’t as bad as Akaashi would’ve imagined. There’s a cake pan on the floor, surrounded by what looks to be brownies, and smoke billows from the oven and through the stove burners. Akaashi closes the oven door and turns on the vent fan before handing Bokuto a dishtowel. “Wave this in front of the smoke detector.”

 

Bokuto nods with a sniff and complies and Akaashi turns the oven off and works on cleaning strewn brownie from the tiles. The incessant beeping of the alarm cuts off shortly after, plunging the two into a disconcerting silence that is broken only by Bokuto’s intermittent sighs.

 

“Looks like there’s enough left in the pan for a couple brownies, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says, in hopes of lifting his mood.

 

Instead, Bokuto sighs loud and long and trudges to the coat closet for his mop. “You’re smart, Akaashi.” Bokuto says after a while, languidly swiping the mop across the floor. “Where do you think I went wrong?”

 

Akaashi washes brownie bits from his hands. “Where’s the recipe?”

 

Bokuto gestures to a crumpled, grease-speckled fast food wrapper on the counter. Akaashi shakes the excess water from his hands and rubs the rest off on his pants as he peers over the messy, smudged writing.

 

“The pan was too small,” he says after a while. “The brownies overflowed and burnt at the bottom of the oven.”

 

Bokuto slaps himself on the forehead. “I knew I should’ve measured!”

 

“Actually, it tells you the size on the back of the pan.” He takes the cake pan from the drying rack and flips it over, pointing to the small, engraved numbers. “See?”

 

Bokuto gets so close to the numbers Akaashi almost worries he’s going to headbutt them. “I’m a failure!” He wails instead, “I’m never baking again!”

 

Akaashi takes the plate with two lone brownies. “At least try the finished product.” He says, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth.

 

Bokuto watches him carefully. “How is it?”

 

Akaashi clears his throat and swallows. “Good. Um, Bokuto-san?”

 

Bokuto looks devastated. “They’re awful, aren’t they?”

 

“No, no. Did you use pecans?”

 

Bokuto’s eyes widen. “Yes.”

 

“Oh, okay, that makes sense.” Akaashi says, scratching his cheek and pressing tentative fingers across his bottom lip. “I’m allergic.”

 

“What!?” Bokuto screeches. He grabs Akaashi by the shoulder and forces him into a nearby kitchen chair. “What should I do!? Oh my god. Should I call an ambulance!? I’m so sorry, Akaashi-i.” Bokuto leans his head on Akaashi’s shoulder and Akaashi looks to the side with a smirk and pats him on the back.

 

“It’s only a mild allergy. Do you have any Benedryl?”

 

“No.” Bokuto wails.

 

“That’s okay, I have some upstairs. I’ll just—“

 

“You stay.” Bokuto holds him in the chair by his shoulders. “I’ll get it.”

 

“It’s not a big deal.” He tells Bokuto, but his tongue feels heavy and it’s getting hard to talk, so he hands Bokuto his keys, anyway.

 

Akaashi tells Bokuto where the medicine can be found and he takes off immediately, his pounding footsteps disappearing up the stairs before rematerializing over Akaashi’s head.

 

Akaashi leans back in the chair and stares at the ceiling. His cheeks feel warm, most likely from a rash. He can hear Bokuto thumping around over his head, somehow more clearly than he would’ve guessed. He wonders what Bokuto has parsed together about his life based solely on his movements above him.

 

Bokuto bursts back into the apartment moments later. “Your lips are swollen,” He frets when he hands Akaashi the pill bottle.

 

“That happens.” Akaashi says simply, popping the pills into his mouth and washing them down with a long sip of water.

 

Bokuto slumps into a chair and lets his forehead fall onto the table with a bang. “You tried to help me and I almost killed you.” He whines, words muffled from his mouth squished up against the wood.

 

“I’m not going to die.” Akaashi tells him, running his teeth along his tongue to try to quell the itchy feeling in his mouth.

 

“You won’t?”

 

“Well, eventually, but not today.”

 

“That’s not funny, Akaashi.”

 

“Here.” Akaashi reaches for where Bokuto’s phone is resting on the table and swipes his fingers across the screen.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Akaashi hands him the phone back. “You have my number. Call me next time you want to make brownies.”

 

Bokuto’s eyes open wide as saucers and he holds his phone in the air as if he is recreating the beginning scene of ‘The Lion King.’ “Akaashi’s number,” he says in a reverent whisper.

 

Akaashi has to pretend to rub his nose to hide his amused smile. “Only use it in emergencies, okay?”

 

Akaashi’s own phone vibrates in his pocket. He gives Bokuto an exasperated look.

 

“What?” Bokuto asks, putting his phone away with a guilty smile. “I was just returning the favor.”

 

Akaashi’s mouth returns to a more normal state shortly after and he takes his leave back to his apartment. One thing continues to bother him about the ordeal, however.

 

He takes out his phone and types a message. “So who were those chocolates for, anyway?” He stares at it for a long time, finger hovering over ‘send.’ Finally, he shakes his heads and deletes it.

 

There’s no easy outcome if he finds out the answer to that question. For now, he thinks it best if he doesn’t know.  

 


	2. Spring

Akaashi taps his pen on the table, sighing as he tries to concentrate on the textbook in front of him. He chews on the pen cap, blurring and refocusing his eyes once, twice, three times, before groaning and slamming his pen on the table. He picks his phone up for what feels like the twentieth time that morning and thumbs the home button, mouth quirking up in irritation when he realizes what he’s doing. He puts the cell back down and pushes it to the far end of the table, rubbing the heels of his palms back and forth across his thighs to try to refocus his attention.

 

Bokuto has stayed true to his word and not bombarded Akaashi’s phone with messages. In fact, he hasn’t called or texted him once, save for the first text to send him his contact. Akaashi is completely loath to admit it but he finds he’s somewhat—disappointed.

 

He doesn’t want incessant, mindless texts. He doesn’t want to feel burdened with the expectation to be social. He doesn’t. But that knowledge hadn’t stopped him from staying up late into the night the first evening after they’d traded numbers, heart pounding with the anticipation of a goodnight text. That knowledge hadn’t stopped the swell of despondency in his chest when he woke up the next morning and realized it never came.

 

He’d really thought he had Bokuto figured out. He was the guy that thought he was straight until he met the pretty, openly gay boy upstairs and realized maybe that wasn’t totally true, and Akaashi was the pretty, openly gay boy that evaded his advances because he was too jaded to deal with a guy just figuring out his sexuality. Or maybe that was just an easy excuse to reject Bokuto, manifested by Akaashi's need to ignore his needling fear that he doesn’t really know how to love anyone, not in the way that he’s used to hearing love described, anyway. He’d rather be alone than deal with another angry—or worse, sad—ex wondering why he isn’t capable of reciprocating the affection and attention he receives.

 

Akaashi feels like an idiot. He’s analytical—a planner—and most of the time, that’s not such a bad thing. People are unpredictable, though. Maybe more than he ever gives them credit for. He realizes it afresh every time he determines the outcome of a relationship before it even has the chance to take root.

 

Still, never in his wildest dreams did he imagine _he_ was the one pining after Bokuto.

 

He plays the events of the last few months through his head, desperately searching for the clues—the telltale heart lurches or blushes or fixated thoughts. They’re there, but not in large quantities, and not in situations that didn’t warrant them. Thinking about Bokuto doesn’t make his chest flutter, but he also doesn’t like when he doesn’t hear the noises of life below him.

 

Akaashi’s breath is calm as he runs back the mental reel of winter through his brain. This time he steps outside of himself and tries to view it impartially. He strips away the assumed double meanings behind Bokuto’s words and instead takes them at face value. The guy had never tried to touch him inappropriately, though he’d had many opportunities to do so. He’d been complimentary with his words, but judging how he acted around his friends, that was just who he was—open and unguarded, gregarious, a people person. Akaashi himself had made that assessment before even officially meeting him. He wonders how he had let himself forget it so easily when he was the target of Bokuto’s affable nature.

 

He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to confront it. Akaashi swallows thickly and slams his textbook shut, pushing it to the far end of the table next to his phone.

 

He’d probably interpreted Bokuto’s actions as being those of an infatuated admirer because somewhere deep inside, he’d secretly _wanted_ that to be the case.

 

It all feels so ridiculous, so _embarrassing_. It’s a sensation not dissimilar to the time his Mom walked in on him masturbating to gay porn when he was fourteen. It’s utter revulsion for everything he is, for every desirous, hedonistic want condensed into his spindly, clumsy body because, _god_. Does he seriously have a crush?      

 

Akaashi drops his head to the table and looks out the window, at the softly churning gray clouds, heavy with the last vestiges of winter snow. His eyes trace the thin black telephone wire threading the sky, connecting his apartment to Bokuto’s. He tries not to think of his phone, lifeless and rarely used, mere feet from where his hands trace nervous lines into the tabletop.

 

He focuses back on the glass—pulling his vision closer, to what’s familiar. He can barely make out his reflection—weary, heavy-lidded eyes, small, drawn mouth. The person staring back at him is undefined, insubstantial. Akaashi thinks it very much reflects reality.    

 

He’s absorbed in it, lost in his thoughts, when a wild gray blur smacks into the glass, shattering the surface into a brightly shining web of light. Akaashi jumps to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He runs to the window and peers down, but all he can make out are a few lazily floating feathers.

 

He dashes to his door in his plaid pajama pants and faded gray t-shirt, not even bothering to put on shoes before scrambling down the stairs to the street. The cement is cold and painful under his feet, but he doesn’t notice it. Akaashi walks up and down the walkway, throwing his head from side to side, trying to judge the trajectory of the bird falling from his window. His heart lifts a little when he can’t immediately locate it. He thinks maybe it flew off—maybe the collision hadn’t been as brutal as it had seemed.

 

His heart sinks into his stomach when he spots a speckle of blood, blooming brightly from the gray cement. Blood is beaded across the sidewalk like a morbid breadcrumb trail. Akaashi follows it to the corner of the building to find the prostrate, twitching body of a small earth-colored bird.

 

He crouches over it, fretting about what to do, when a concerned voice sounds behind him.

 

“Akaashi?” Bokuto pauses on the walkway and adjusts his backpack on his shoulder. “Aren’t you cold?”

 

Akaashi stays unmoving, unblinking. “It hit my window.” He says as way of explanation.

 

Bokuto walks closer. “What did?” He tilts his head, trying to peer around Akaashi’s crouched body.

 

Akaashi realizes with a start that it’s best for Bokuto not to see. The guy is quick to sorrow and he doesn’t want to be responsible for comforting him should it come to that. Akaashi has never been good at utilizing platitudes. Telling people ‘it’ll be fine’ just seems like an insult to their intelligence, and he can’t stand to hear nonsense about ‘rainbow bridges’ or the like, let alone draw upon them for his own use.

 

It’s lazy. People are just so lazy towards each other. He is, too, and he hates it.

 

“Akaashi? You okay?”

 

Akaashi stands and brushes off his knees. “Fine.”

 

Bokuto tries to peer over his shoulder but Akaashi grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him towards the apartment complex entryway.

 

“Did something happen?” Bokuto glances nervously over his shoulder.

 

Akaashi doesn’t answer. He is positively stunned to feel his throat constrict and his eyes burn with tears. His sadness usually runs deep and dry. It’s rare for him to cry. He was so often advised against it as a child. Even so, he feels a tear roll down his cheek as he passes into the stale, warm air of the lobby and he coughs to keep an unbidden sob from thundering through his throat.

 

Bokuto seems to notice his predicament. He takes charge, grabbing Akaashi by the wrist and leading him up to his apartment on the second floor. Akaashi doesn’t argue, he lets himself be guided inside, and—once the door is soundly closed—pulled into a hug.

 

Bokuto doesn’t say anything and Akaashi is stiff and awkward in his arms. The sensation isn’t altogether unpleasant. Akaashi keeps a vice grip on his emotions, no more tears escape, though he has the strong feeling that he could lean into Bokuto if he really wanted to. He supposes it is this quality that makes it believable that Bokuto would be the ace of his high school volleyball team, despite his pendulous moods.

 

Bokuto holds him longer than is probably necessary—long enough to make Akaashi reflect on his reaction and to feel thoroughly dramatic and stupid for it.

 

He chalks it up to shock from seeing the poor creature struggle and die right before his eyes. Or maybe it’s misplaced guilt. It was his window that killed the thing, after all.

 

He wonders if it could be saved. He wonders if he will be charged for the window.

 

Finally, Bokuto releases him. He holds Akaashi by the shoulders and stares intently at his face. Akaashi is not short but he feels especially small in that moment.

 

“You okay there?” Bokuto releases him and gestures to his sofa. His voice is quiet, lilting as though he was speaking to a child.

 

Akaashi doesn’t really want to sit and have a chat, but it would be more awkward to cry and bolt, so, if for no other reason than he lives above Bokuto and is forced to interact with him on a semi-regular basis, he complies.

 

“I’m fine, sorry.” He looks at his hands and curls his fingers into his palms. “I’m just overly tired, I think.”

 

“You’ve gotta learn to relax, man!” Bokuto sits on the sofa across from him, then springs back up. “You want some tea?”

 

Akaashi raises his head to deny him but Bokuto is already halfway to the kitchen. “I don’t really study as much as you think I do.”

 

“That’s exactly what any nerdy perfectionist would say.” Bokuto counters.

 

“It’s a normal amount. Not all students spend all their time partying and playing video games.”

 

Bokuto returns from the kitchen, holding two mugs of steaming water and a handful of tea bags.

 

“I mean,” Akaashi looks at his knees, then back to Bokuto. “I’m sorry. I don’t actually think that’s all you do.”

 

“You’re not sorry, but it’s okay.” Bokuto says with confidence, placing the cup in front of Akaashi and brandishing his tea options. “That is mostly what I do.”

 

Akaashi selects an Earl Grey and smirks. “Well, you must do well enough.”

 

Bokuto presses his lips together in a knowing smile. “I study, but I have to do it at school. I can’t concentrate here.” He opens a black tea for himself and dips the bag into the mug. He pulls on the string impatiently, trying to expedite the steeping process. “Do you need sugar?”

 

Akaashi shakes his head and pulls the bag from the cup, letting the stray drips fall before moving it carefully back into the discarded packet. He blows across the surface of the tea and takes a short sip, grateful for the warmth that curls into his stomach.

 

“You know,” Akaashi starts, lulled into comfort by the tea and Bokuto’s laidback nature.

 

Bokuto raises an eyebrow in question and takes a gulp of his own tea. He immediately jerks the cup from his lips and pants with his tongue out. “Hot!” He whines, glaring at the mug as if it had secretly schemed to burn him.  

 

Akaashi opens his mouth then closes it again and looks down into the swirling brown liquid. “Nn—nevermind.”

 

Bokuto surprisingly doesn’t press. He takes another sip of his tea—slower this time—and leans back into the sofa with a contented sigh. “Some of the guys are coming over for a gaming marathon tonight if you want to join. We’ll have pizza and beer and—” he shrugs. “It should be a good time, you should come.”

 

Akaashi hums as he consider. He has a paper due, but it’s already written. He has to turn it in early, but he doesn’t have to stay late at Bokuto’s. After all, he lives right upstairs. “Okay.” He agrees, placing his half empty mug on the table.

 

Bokuto straightens up a little. “Seriously?”

 

Akaashi smooths out an eyebrow with his forefinger. “Yeah, why not.”

 

“I just thought you were pretty antisocial.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“But you—“

 

“I have nothing against hanging out with people, it’s just—school is my priority.”

 

“Yeah.” Bokuto inhales deeply and nods a little too vigorously. “I respect that. I’m sorry if I insulted you.”

 

Akaashi thinks about how innocent Bokuto must be to think being called ‘antisocial’ qualifies as an insult. “It’s fine.” He assures. “What time should I come over?”

 

“Eight okay?”

 

“Sure,” Akaashi stands and pulls down his shirt by the hem. “See you then.”

 

+

 

Bokuto’s friends consist of the two short guys from the Christmas Party—Kenma and Hinata, Bokuto informs him—and two guys Akaashi has never met before: one with a kind expression and ashy blonde hair—Suga, he introduces himself as—and a tall guy with a smug, if handsome, face—Oikawa.

 

Akaashi isn’t sure if the friends are together or it’s just his own sexual preferences coloring his interpretation of their actions. Either way, the guys seem close, and that’s putting it mildly.

 

Not ten minutes after arriving, he sees Oikawa wrap an arm around Suga’s waist and Hinata rub Kenma’s knee. It’s nice, if mildly disconcerting. Akaashi wonders if Bokuto invited him over tonight as an act of solidarity or maybe an expression of peace: ‘these guys are my friends and they’re gay, so we can be friends, too.’

 

Then he decides Bokuto isn’t the type to put that much thought into it. Somehow, Akaashi prefers it that way.

 

“I was promised pizza and beer!” Hinata wraps his arms around Kenma’s shoulder and rubs their cheeks together.

 

Kenma grabs Hinata by the sleeve. He’s turned towards him but seems to be looking past his face rather than at it. “You’re not drinking, you have no tolerance.” His voice is somewhat monotone and so quiet Akaashi can barely hear it.

 

Hinata turns red and he puffs his cheeks out with a pout and pulls away. “I told you, Lev gave me tips.”

 

“Lev is a foot taller than you.” Kenma says calmly, combing his hair behind his ear. “And he can’t handle alcohol, either.”

 

Hinata’s mood seems to lighten at that. He grabs his stomach with both hands and leans forward with a laugh. “Remember the time we got a noise complaint because he wouldn’t stop singing ‘What’s New Pussycat?’”

 

“It was okay until he started yelling it out the window.” Kenma agrees.

 

Hinata laughs even harder.

 

Kenma watches his boyfriend intently and smiles almost imperceptibly. “I still get cat drawings stuck to my door sometimes.”

 

“That’s probably just Kuroo messing with you,” Bokuto winks at Kenma then pats Hinata on the shoulder. “It’s alright, little dude, you don’t have to drink.” He puffs his chest out like he’s weirdly proud of being a responsible chaperone and ruffles Hinata’s hair.

 

“Okay, but it doesn’t change the fact that the current pizza to human ratio is 6:0.” Suga points out. He’s sitting on Oikawa’s lap on the couch, tapping out something on his phone before pocketing it. He stands, pulling Oikawa up behind him.

 

“I’ll order some now!” Bokuto offers, but Suga shakes his head.

 

“Don’t bother, there’s a good place right down the street.” He claps his hands together and nods towards Akaashi. “Akaashi-kun and I will go for the pizza.” His voice is gentle but carries a decisiveness that Akaashi wouldn’t dare challenge. Suga lightly grasps Oikawa’s forearm and looks up at him. “You and Bokuto-kun can go for the alcohol.” He releases his grip but then hesitates and takes Oikawa’s arm again. “Just beer, no liquor.”

 

“But Suga-cha-an, I wanted to make an Alien Brain Hemorrhage!“ Oikawa’s whiny tone is completely incongruous with his handsome, composed image. It takes Akaashi by surprise.

 

“First of all, no. It’s disgusting and way too sweet.” Sugawara counts out his reasons on his fingers, hip cocked. “Second of all, whenever you drink liquor you insist on calling Iwaizumi-kun in the middle of the night, and frankly, I’m starting to understand his murder threats.”

 

Oikawa sighs dramatically and tilts his chin to the ceiling, lifting his palms in an exaggerated shrug. “Fine, _Mom_.”

 

Suga whips his head to Oikawa, eyes flashing. “Well, I guess that makes you a mother fucker.”

 

Oikawa eeps and throws his hands over his mouth. “ _Language_ , Suga-chan!”

 

Suga smiles cheekily and turns towards Akaashi. “Shall we go?”

 

Akaashi blinks dumbly and nods. “Y-yeah.”

 

“Just beer!” Suga calls over his shoulder as they exit the apartment.

 

They’ve only just stepped onto the sidewalk when Suga folds his hands into his armpits and shivers. “I’m getting sick of this cold weather. It’s spring, already!”

 

“Mother Nature really needs to get with it.” Akaashi agrees. He feels mildly pleased with himself when Suga giggles.

 

“So how long have you known Bokuto-kun?” Suga tries to look casual—he rubs at his biceps and turns his head towards Akaashi, eyes soft and innocent. Akaashi isn’t fooled. He gets the feeling nothing this guy does is without purpose.

 

“Just a few months now. We met at the beginning of December.”

 

“He seems quite taken with you.”

 

Akaashi rubs at his nose with the crook of his finger. “I think Bokuto-san gets along well with everyone.”

 

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Suga admits. “But there’s a difference between getting along with someone and liking them.”

 

“I guess that’s true.” They walk in silence for a few beats. Akaashi focuses on the scuff of his shoe against cement. He kicks a loose pebble across the pathway and watches as it skitters out of sight. Finally, he lifts his head and breaks the quiet. “How do you tell the difference?”

 

Suga turns to him and crinkles his eyes into a slight smile. “I think you already know.”

 

Akaashi inhales and nods, but his shoulders shake with laughter and soon his face crumples into a peel of quiet giggles. “Why do I feel like you’re some mystical sage?”

 

Suga rolls his eyes to the sky. “Blame Tooru. He’s obsessed with Star Wars, lately.”

 

“Just don’t start talking like Yoda, okay?”

 

“No promises, I make.”

 

“Oh my god.” Akaashi groans, shaking his head in feigned disappointment as Suga opens the pizzeria door for him with a laugh. The air is dense with the smell of fried dough and cheese and so warm from the ovens it immediately dries out his eyes.

 

Akaashi stands back and rubs at his eyes while Suga addresses the cashier. He tries not to cringe when Suga orders himself a personal pizza with spicy sausage, peppers, and extra pepperoncinis on the side.

 

“So how did you meet Oikawa-san?” He asks when they sit to wait for their order. The bench is barely big enough for both of them and Akaashi has to pull his legs together to keep them from bumping Suga’s.

 

“We knew of each other in high school—we both played volleyball—but we didn’t really meet till University. We were paired as roommates.” Suga crosses his legs and rests his forearm in his lap. “To this day I can’t figure out what answers on our questionnaires made them think our personalities would be compatible.”

 

“So then, you two aren’t—?”

 

“Oh, no. We’re dating.”

 

“Ah—okay.”

 

“Was that too forthcoming? I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.” Suga straightens his back against the bench and relaxes into a close-eyed smile.

 

“No, it’s fine. I’m gay, so—“

 

“Oh, that’s right. I think I remember Bokuto-kun saying something about that.”

 

Akaashi gets the distinct feeling Suga had never forgotten. The guy was pretty— cute, even—with soft fluttering hair and a warm, expressive face, but Akaashi got the impression it hid an underlying cunning nature that made him a force to be reckoned with. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to feel totally uncomfortable. Suga’s smile was too genuine, and honestly, he appreciated his bluntness.

 

“So are you seeing anyone?”

 

Okay, maybe he didn’t appreciate his bluntness _that_ much.

 

“No.” Akaashi crosses his arms over his lap. “I’m concentrating on school at the moment.”

 

Suga hums in understand. “That’s admirable. We could probably all do to follow your example.” He stands when the cashier calls his name. “But I’m glad you decided to take a break and join us tonight.”

 

“Yeah, me, too.” Akaashi smiles and it feels genuine.

 

+

 

They’re six hours, two pizzas, and twenty odd beers into the night before Akaashi slumps in front of the couch in tired defeat.

 

Kenma and Hinata are the only two still at it, completely sober and wired: Kenma, a face of complete concentration, committing amazing feats of video game acrobatics without so much as the slightest change in facial expression, and Hinata, on his feet, mashing random buttons and hopping around so enthusiastically Akaashi is stunned he has yet to break anything.

 

Oikawa is on the couch, babbling about the viability of life in space to an inattentive audience and Sugawara is in his lap, passed out with his face nestled into the crook of Oikawa’s neck. The sight makes Akaashi feel oddly emotional. He blames the alcohol.

 

Bokuto returns from the bathroom and sits on the couch armrest. He looks down at where Akaashi is nodding off and smiles affectionately, pulling a fluffy gray blanket from the back of the sofa and draping it carefully across the drowsy boy’s lap.

 

Akaashi looks up—blinking slowly—and yawns so big tears prick his eyes. “I think it’s time for me to go, Bokuto-san.”

 

“Just stay the night.” Bokuto tells him. He reaches out like he’s going to ruffle Akaashi’s hair but quickly draws his hand back, clutching it into his shirt, instead. “I don’t think you’ll make it up the stairs in this state.”

 

“I can’t, I have class in the morning.”

 

“What time?”

 

“8:30.”

 

Bokuto grimaces. “Geez, are you a secret masochist?”

 

Akaashi shrugs and scratches absently at his shoulder. “It was the only time that fit into my schedule.”

 

“So go to sleep, I’ll wake you up in time for you to get ready and catch the bus.”

 

“You promise?” Akaashi rubs at his face with the back of his wrist. His eyelids are heavy and he struggles to keep them open.

 

“Promise.” Bokuto gives him a thumbs up and a smile so brimming with confidence, Akaashi allows himself to be vulnerable—to believe in him. He doesn’t waste any time in slumping over on the floor, letting his body go slack with sleep. If he feels Bokuto’s arms wrap around him and settle him into his bed, he is too drunk off beer and exhaustion to care.

 

+

 

When Akaashi wakes, it’s to bright morning light gleaming through the gap of an unfamiliar curtain and a cheek slick with saliva. He always drools when he has a particularly deep sleep; and indeed, he feels completely warm and comfortable and awake for the first time in ages, even though the vestiges of sleep leave him disoriented and oblivious to his surroundings.

 

He shuffles from beneath the blankets and sits up against the headrest. The sight of a jersey slung over a desk chair makes memory descend like a ladder: Bokuto, gaming, enough pizza and beers to make him drowsy, class at 8:30, Bokuto waking him up, and a light that is entirely too bright to emerge from any time before 10.

 

Akaashi throws his covers back and flings himself from bed, he searches the room for a clock and—finding none—races to the living room. His heart sinks when he spots the time on the tv. 9:47. He’s totally missed his class. Even if he ran to the bus stop now—hair a mess and clothes wrinkled and disheveled—he wouldn’t make it in time for even the tail end of the lecture.

 

He thinks of his professors warning: a letter grade drop if the paper is turned in late. It’s probably just an empty threat to keep him from getting overloaded with a copious amount of extension requests. Even if it isn’t, Akaashi’s overall grade in the class shouldn’t suffer too much. But in that moment, he lacks the capability for clarity. His body is thrumming with panic, his mind jumping to every unrealistic conclusion. This one slip-up and his teachers will begin to view him as unreliable. He won’t be able to get good recommendations for a future job. His parents will somehow catch wind of it and fix him with that tone that makes him feel like such a _failure_. _God_ , maybe he’ll even lose his scholarship, and he can’t afford both school and his apartment, even if he upped his hours at work it’s just _not possible_.

 

He settles on anger because it’s easier. He’s pissed at Bokuto, and he’s pissed at himself for ever thinking he could trust him.

 

Akaashi scans the room for Bokuto’s form. Kenma and Hinata are gone, presumably to their own homes. Suga and Oikawa are both stretched out on the couch, Suga wrapped in Oikawa’s arms, head buried in his chest. Finally, he spots Bokuto, sprawled out on the floor on his back, throw pillow squished beneath one shoulder and a blanket strewn diagonally across his thighs.

 

Akaashi peers over him. “Bokuto-san.” He snaps in a whisper, toeing Bokuto’s bicep. “Bokuto-san, wake up.”

 

“Nn,” Bokuto whines, rolling over to hide his face. “Five more minutes.”

 

Suga and Oikawa stir behind him, but Akaashi ignores it. “Bokuto-san, I missed my class.”

 

“Who cares?” Bokuto rubs his face with the heels of his palms then pauses and opens his eyes wide, blinking in realization. He shoots up into a seated position and grabs his hair in both hands. “Oh my god. Akaashi! I’m so sorry!”

 

Suga and Oikawa are fully awake now. Akaashi hears Suga mumble, “what’s going on?” And Oikawa’s cooing ministrations to go back to sleep, it doesn’t concern him.

 

It’s somewhat disconcerting to have an audience, but intermingled anger and panic are burning too deep in his chest to stop now. His ears are ringing from the stress. “Did you mean for this to happen?”

 

“No, no! I really didn’t!”

 

Akaashi doesn’t even really think any of this was intentional, but he can’t stop himself. “I know I said I was sleep deprived but this isn’t helpful. I had a paper to turn in, I’m going to get a letter grade dropped now.”

 

“It was just an accident, I promise!” Bokuto is standing now, his face pale. He bites his lip and furrows his brows towards his hairline.

 

Akaashi rubs at his face. He can’t stand to look at Bokuto right now. He’s mad at him, but he also feels guilty for making him look so downtrodden. It’s endlessly aggravating. “Look, forget it. It’s my fault. I’m just—I’m gonna go home now.”

 

“Akaashi.” Bokuto’s voice sounds utterly dejected. Akaashi’s heart is thumping madly in his chest, he knows he should turn around and make amends, but that would mean bridging a gap he’s not prepared to mend.

 

He’s already gotten too close to Bokuto. He knows about his life, has met a good portion of his friends, and even spends time with him outside the occasional random stairway encounter. He fears Bokuto will start to expect something more from him soon—time, attention, affection, maybe even more. Whether romantic or platonic, these are high hurdles for Akaashi to face. They always have been, and the emotional toll of being told time and time again that he isn’t quick enough to reciprocate—to express his fondness through socially expected means—has made him wary of ever reaching the level of companionship that would require it.

 

Akaashi’s put on a decent show of normalcy so far. Bokuto seems to think that _he_ is the problem, which is really a marvel in and of itself. And Akaashi’s not in a hurry to amend that perception.

 

‘ _This can be the end_ ,’ he thinks. But even as he walks up his stairs, distancing himself both physically and emotionally from Bokuto, his heart grows cold—this time not with anger, but regret.

 

He pauses in the threshold of his apartment, hand on the doorknob, staring down at Bokuto’s door. He tells himself that if he comes after him in ten seconds, he’ll give him another chance.

 

It’s a bargain born of desperation. A useless one, too, because in the end, Akaashi stands on the landing for three full minutes and Bokuto never shows. So he clamps his lips in resignation and once again closes the door on his apartment and his heart.

 

+

 

After Akaashi emails his professor, takes a shower, and has time to reflect over a steaming cup of tea, guilt settles into his bones like a dull ache. He needs to make up with Bokuto, probably. He doesn’t have to be close to the guy, but for the sake of living peaceably together as neighbors, it’d be best to smooth things over with him.

 

Akaashi has just pushed himself back from the table, resolving himself to the humiliating act of knocking on Bokuto’s door, when his phone vibrates. He’s desperate for any kind of distraction to delay his having to apologize, so he grabs the cell and checks the message.

 

 **To: Akaashi**  
**From: Bokuto  
** **Subject: (No Subject)**

**U shouldnt hang out with me anymore. Im just a bad influence.**

 

The furious pounding in Akaashi’s chest is rekindled. He reads the words again and again, parsing over every possible interpretation. His instinct is that this is some kind of ploy to make him feel bad, or to somehow absolve Bokuto of all wrongdoing. But he knows the guy probably isn’t cunning enough to pull off that kind of maneuver, and anyway, he’s witnessed Bokuto’s mood swings first hand. He knows the guy has a tendency towards defeatist thinking.

 

Still, Akaashi is indignant. He chooses to completely ignore the fact that—just a few hours ago—he himself was ready to shut Bokuto out of his life forever. With one simple text—his first _real_ text from Bokuto, Akaashi can’t help but think—his voice has been completely removed from the matter. Now, the tables have turned, and he has determined that Bokuto is nothing but an overgrown, moody brat.

 

He thinks about not answering the text, to instead let Bokuto suffer through silence. But the ambiguity of that kind of non-response is too open for interpretation. Instead, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity before exhaling slowly and tapping out his reply.

 

 **To: Bokuto**  
**From: Akaashi  
** **Subject: (No Subject)**

**Understood.**

 

+

 

Since that brief text exchange, it’s been a solid two weeks of living in a stalemate. Akaashi reverts back to his behavior from when Bokuto first moved in back in November. He listens intently for movement in the stairwell before he chances leaving his apartment, and he intentionally times his departures and arrivals to never intersect with Bokuto’s.

 

For Bokuto’s part, he seems similarly loath for them to meet. Akaashi infers from the noises below him that life is continuing for his neighbor as usual, but he no longer comes to Akaashi’s door or tries to involve him in his plans.

 

It probably would’ve continued that way for an indefinite period of time, if not for the apartment-wide community bulletin. Akaashi would usually remove the thing from where it was stuffed in the crease of his doorjamb and dispose of it without ever reading its contents. It only ever detailed reminders of apartment rules or listed notices of community events like bake sales or movie nights—things more catered toward the families in the complex, rather than the University students.

 

But this time, something caught his eye when he pulled the flyer from the door. There was a red banner on the front reading: “Urgent: please read.” It was rare for the office people to spring on color printing, so Akaashi toed his shoes off at the door and padded into the kitchen, leaning his back against his cabinets as he read.

 

Apparently, some of the residents had been noticing some suspicious activity around the building. A few different people had reported seeing the same group of guys hanging out in the alleyways and more still had claimed to have been catcalled or generally made to feel uneasy on their way to and from their homes.

 

The newsletter recommended some general rules of safe commuting: travel in groups, don’t wear flashy jewelry or large bags, walk towards the inside of the street where the street lamps are brightest. Then, at the bottom, it requested volunteers for a community neighborhood watch. The complex has a security guard, but he was often out patrolling. Apparently, the office management thought it prudent to have a resident sit in the lobby from 6-9p, if for no other reason than to have an ear nearby if something were to happen.

 

Akaashi folds the newsletter and pulls out his phone to call for an assignment. The staff is delighted. Only one other resident had expressed interest, the property manager claims, and would Akaashi mind sitting in for three days this week until they recruited more volunteers?

 

Akaashi assures that, no, he doesn’t mind. He has work today, but he is fortunate enough that his schoolwork can be done from home, and his boss is always understanding enough to make adjustments to his schedule when he needs it.

 

The property manager tells him it’s fine, the other volunteer has already agreed to be on watch today. Akaashi wonders who it might be as he tucks his laptop into his satchel, slides his phone into his pocket and sets out the door to work. He grabs onto his messenger bag strap as he runs lightly down the steps, preparing himself to exchange stilted greetings with whoever was selected to wait out the evening in the lobby that particular night.

 

He turns his head to the desk when he passes through, ready to sling a quick “hello” or “good evening” and be on his way, but the words catch in his throat when he spots familiar spikes of white and black hair.

 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto places both palms on the table and half stands out of the metal foldout chair. He doesn’t appear happy or sad so much as restless—eyes wide and searching and eyebrows curved slightly upwards. He looks every bit as anxious as Akaashi feels.

 

Akaashi’s grip around his satchel strap tightens but his face remains the picture of apathy. “Bokuto-san, good evening.” He nods and starts towards the door.

 

“Akaashi, wait!” Bokuto stands all the way and sends his chair clattering to the floor behind him. He races after Akaashi and grabs him by the bicep.

 

Akaashi pulls himself free of Bokuto’s grip out of instinct and rubs at the spot he had touched. “What is it?” Despite his best effort, his voice betrays his irritation.

 

“Sorry, I just—“ Bokuto scratches the back of his head. Akaashi notices that his shoulders are a little more slumped than usual. “Where are you headed?”

 

“Work,” Akaashi says, a little impatiently.

 

“Oh, right, sure.”

 

Akaashi presses his lips into a thin line. “So if you don’t mind—“ He says, nodding towards the sidewalk and his intended path.

 

“Right, sorry.” Bokuto laughs. His head is thrown back in the usual manner, but the sound is stilted and unnatural. It makes Akaashi’s stomach turn.

 

“See you around.”

 

“Wait, Akaashi!” Bokuto grabs him by the bicep again and Akaashi feels his frustration growing.

 

“What is it, Bokuto-san? I have to get to work.” He wants to draw comparison to Bokuto’s apparent penchant for making him late for all of his obligations, but he buries the words down. Just because he has the power to hurt someone, doesn’t mean he has to yield it.

 

“I should walk you, I think. You saw the flyer, didn’t you? About the weirdos hanging around the building?”

 

“I saw it,” Akaashi confirms. “But I’ll be fine. Isn’t it your job to be watching the lobby?”

 

Bokuto shakes his head back and forth in such an uninhibited way it reminds Akaashi of a child only just learning muscle coordination. “That’s part of it, yeah, but they told me to escort people if they feel uncomfortable.”

 

“I don’t feel uncomfortable.”

 

“Not even a little?”

 

Akaashi holds back an exasperated sigh. “No.”

 

“Well,” Bokuto tightens his grip on Akaashi’s arm. “I do.”

 

“Then I suggest you go back to the lobby.” Akaashi pulls back until Bokuto releases him.

 

“That’s not what I mean.” Bokuto pouts slightly and tucks his thumbs into his pockets.

 

Akaashi doesn’t wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t exactly want to have a heart-to-heart. Not now when he’s dangerously close to being late for work, and preferably, not ever. He rolls his eyes to the side and sighs. “Walk with me, then.”

 

“Okay!” Bokuto agrees happily. His shoulders instantly lift and his face brightens behind a smile.

 

‘ _It’s not a trick_.’ Akaashi has to remind himself to dampen down his anger as they walk. ‘ _This guy just has really intense mood swings_.’

 

“Aren’t you glad the weather’s finally getting warm?” Bokuto prompts. He’s practically skipping. His joy at getting his way is so unabashed it’s almost endearing.

 

‘ _Not endearing,_ embarrassing,’ Akaashi mentally corrects. “Nn,” he replies. He’s still determined to keep Bokuto at a distance, to punish him for his text and convey to him that words have meaning and shouldn’t be yielded so carelessly.

 

“I don’t really mind the cold, but I hate when it snows and I can’t leave the apartment. Fires are good, though. And snowmen. Oh, snow cream! You ever make that? Christmas is good, too. Oh, we should make yosenabe before it gets too warm!”

 

“Maybe,” Akaashi says before he can remind himself not to. Bokuto’s enthusiasm is enthralling. He knows he should be annoyed by it, but somehow it seems so genuine he can’t help but be swayed.

 

“Seriously?” Bokuto asks. His eyes shine like glossy, golden stars in the street lamps’ yellow light. “How about this weekend? I’ll get a recipe from my Mom!”

 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? My ears are still ringing from the last time you tried one of her recipes.”

 

“I can cook, _okay_ , I’m just an inexperienced baker!” Bokuto protests with no real malice. “And even _I_ can throw ingredients in a pot.”

 

Akaashi hides a snicker behind the back of his hand. “Either way, I don’t know if I’m free this weekend.”

 

“Oh.” Bokuto’s hands freeze from where they were animatedly carving gestures into the air and fall back to his sides. “Okay.”

 

An apology sits on the tip of Akaashi’s tongue, but he swallows it back. He has no reason to apologize. Bokuto is getting worked up on his own. They haven’t even officially made amends and he’s talking about hot pots as if all is right in the world. It’s just further proof that he’s nothing more to Bokuto than a person to fulfill his need for constant social interaction.

 

Akaashi is nothing special to him.

 

It should make Akaashi feel relieved, but it doesn’t. It just really doesn’t.

 

Akaashi stops abruptly. “This is work.” He says, nodding up at the sign. “Takeda Used Books,” it reads.

 

Bokuto glances up and nods knowingly. “Used bookstore, huh? That really suits you!”

 

Akaashi pushes his way through the door and nods to some nearby customers. “Why’s that?” He asks over his shoulder.

 

Bokuto follows Akaashi to the register and scratches his cheek, looking around at the mismatched bookshelves as if they will give him his answer. “Well, you like to read, don’t you?”

 

“So do a lot of people.” Akaashi lifts his satchel off his shoulder and places it on the dusty floor. He pushes up his sweater sleeves and glances at a sloppily written transaction log with a weary grimace.

 

“Yeah, but you’re like—book-y, you know? Cause you’re quiet and smart and good at concentrating.”

 

Akaashi gathers up some randomly dispersed receipts and pierces them through an unused wire spindle. “I’m not that quiet.”

 

“You are, but it’s not a bad thing.” Bokuto leans an elbow on the counter and watches Akaashi work.

 

"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt.” Akaashi rattles off from memory.

 

“Woah, see?”

 

“That’s a quote.”

 

“Still—how do you even know this stuff?” Bokuto marvels.

 

Akaashi wonders if he’s making fun of him, but when he glances up, Bokuto’s face is alight with genuine wide-eyed wonder. His expression is so demonstrative, his affection so clearly evident—it makes Akaashi’s cheeks flush. He doesn’t know what to think anymore. Bokuto is so completely open with his feelings, yet somehow still elusive to him.

 

Akaashi’s overthinking it. He knows he is, but he doesn’t know how to stop. So he just shrugs and taps a stack of paper on the counter. “I read.”

 

“And _that’s_ why working at a bookstore suits you.” Bokuto declares with a huff.

 

Akaashi can’t really argue with that, so he doesn’t try to. “Point taken.”

 

“Oi, Akaashi!” A voice interrupts from behind a precarious stack of oversized reference books.

 

“Don’t smoke in here.” Akaashi says without even looking. A blonde guy appears around the corner, in his late 20s by the look of him, sloppily dressed in a sweatshirt and ill-fitting, oversized jeans with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. “And you shouldn’t leave the register unattended.

 

“Sheesh, you’re worse than Ittetsu.” The guy gripes, stamping out his cigarette on a nearby ashtray. He turns back to the register and eyes Bokuto with a raised eyebrow. “Who’s this, new boyfriend?”

 

“No.” Akaashi says simply. “There are more receipts than there are transactions in the log. It’s going to be a nightmare if we’re audited. You need to keep better track—“

 

“He’s cuter than your last one.”

 

Akaashi pauses from stamping numbers into a calculator. He stares at the device for a few ticks before sighing, hitting clear, and starting again. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“Whatever you say.” The guy turns around and waves a hand over his head. “I’ll be checking inventory if you need me.”

 

“If you’re going to nap, please don’t use the books as a pillow. You ruined a first edition with your drool last time.”

 

The guy gives an exaggerated shrug. “It was just the cover.”

 

“It was valued at 15,000 yen.”

 

The guy pauses in a way that suggests he didn’t realize the cost of the book, but then he recovers and scratches at his neck. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be careful.”

 

Bokuto turns to Akaashi when the man is out of sight. “Who was that?” He attempts to whisper but it doesn’t prevent his naturally loud voice from carrying into every dusty corner of the cramped store.

 

“Ukai-san.” Akaashi tells him. He combs a stray curl away from his face and jots down some numbers in the receipt book. “He’s the owner’s partner.”

 

“Partner, as in…?”

 

“Husband,” Akaashi clarifies. “Well, basically.”

 

Bokuto gives a drawn out “oh” and clears a stack of children’s encyclopedias off a nearby stool.  

 

“What are you doing?” Akaashi asks when Bokuto places the stool next to the counter and sits.

 

Bokuto looks to his left, then his right, and back to Akaashi. “Uh? Making myself comfortable?”

 

Akaashi chews the inside of his lip. “I can see that, but why?”

 

Bokuto looks uncharacteristically timid as he lowers his head and taps the tips of his fingers together. “I just thought I’d hang out with you here, and then, y’know, escort you back home.”

 

“I appreciate your concern, Bokuto-san, but it’s not necessary.” Akaashi pulls his laptop from his satchel and places it to the side of the register. “Anyway, I don’t think my boss would like it if I had a friend hanging around the store when I’m supposed to be working.”

 

“I don’t care.” Ukai calls from behind the historical fiction section.

 

“You’re not my boss.” Akaashi calls back.

 

Bokuto doesn’t seem to notice the short exchange—he’s too caught up in his own world, smiling stupidly. “Friend?”

 

“What?” Akaashi knits his eyebrows.

 

“You called me your friend. Am I your friend?”

 

Akaashi folds his arms over his chest and gives a longsuffering sigh. Of course, Bokuto would be the kind of guy to force him to say embarrassing things. He’s not really the type to pick up on the subtleties of body language or non-explicit gestures. “Yeah.” Akaashi confirms, staring hard at the register. Just to be passive aggressive, he adds, “obviously.”

 

“Wow.” Bokuto’s smile is wide and toothy. “Cool.”

 

Akaashi is pretty sure his body temperature is high enough to melt the floorboards beneath him. He worries about his proximity to so many old, dried out paperbacks. He’d hate having to explain why they all suddenly combusted into flames. “Ye—“ Akaashi voice cracks so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, so—will you go now?”

 

“Oh,” Bokuto hops off the stool. It wobbles precariously but doesn’t fall. “Yes! I’ll go! But call me if you’re bored or, like, scared walking home or anything, kay?”

 

Akaashi pretends to be busy on his laptop. He glances up from the screen to see Bokuto staring at him expectantly, hands on his hips. “Sure, Bokuto-san.”

 

“Good,” Bokuto beams. He zips up his jacket closer to his neck and waves his hand back and forth. “Bye, friend! Work hard!”

 

Akaashi lifts his chin in acknowledgement and curves his fingers in towards his palms. He doesn’t return the salutation, but he does watch Bokuto leave. He follows his two-toned hair and bright turquoise jacket until they are swallowed by the early spring twilight, and then he fights the temptation to go to the door to try to find him again.

 

Bokuto’s voice echoes in his mind and he feels his cheeks flush. ‘ _Friends._ ’ He had sounded so happy saying it.

 

Akaashi runs his thumb across his bottom lip. Then he shakes his head, pulls his hand away, and opens a new word document. ‘ _Friends is okay_ ,’ he thinks. ‘ _It’s innocent._ _I can do friends_.’

 

His deep-seated intuition makes his heart lurch, projecting premonitions of the consequences of friends across his brain, but Akaashi pushes it away. He’ll undoubtedly lose sleep over this, but he can’t help but feel like Bokuto is a risk he’s willing to take.

 

+

 

Ukai emerges from his secret napping place—sandwiched between vintage catalogues and the self help section—shortly after midnight. He stretches his arms over his head and yawns so hard he has to wipe tears from his eyes.

 

He picks up his ashtray from where he had left it in front of a collection of Stephen King hardbacks and plops it on the counter. “You can head out, kid, I’m gonna close up early.” He takes his cigarette pack from his back pocket and pulls a smoke from the carton with his teeth.

 

“We close at one.” Akaashi says pointedly, tapping out words on his keyboard a little harder than necessary.

 

“I’m aware.” Ukai lights his cigarette and sucks in a lungful of nicotine-laced smoke. Akaashi’s nose twitches at the noxious smell. “But we haven’t had a customer in an hour and I want to catch Ittetsu before he goes to bed.”

 

Akaashi shudders at the thought of what his older bosses could get up to. “So leave me the key, then. I’ll lock up.”

 

“No can do, you know Ittetsu’s rule about employees and having a key to the store.” Ukai flicks the cigarette till the spent ashes fall.

 

“So make me a manager, already, and then it won’t be an issue.”

 

Ukai leans his elbows on the counter and shrugs a shoulder. “Not up to me, kid.”

 

“Fine.” Akaashi exhales and slams his laptop shut. “But I’m not taking the heat when Takeda-san gets mad.”

 

“With what I plan on doing to him tonight, he won’t even remember.” Ukai smiles to himself, eyes clouded over with what Akaashi can only presume to be lust.

 

“Okay, I’ve heard more than enough.” Akaashi packs his possessions away and rolls his sweater sleeves back down. He pulls his satchel strap over his shoulder and pockets his phone. “Don’t forget to shut the lights off.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Ukai hums, taking another drag of his cigarette.

 

“And you really shouldn’t smoke in here. We’re basically sitting in a room full of kindling. It’s a huge fire hazard.”

 

“So you’ve said,” Ukai sighs, stamping out his cigarette into the ashtray. “Get home before that boyfriend of yours starts to worry.”

 

“He’s not—“ Akaashi starts to say, but noting the look of amusement on Ukai’s face, clamps his mouth shut in silent indignation. “Goodnight, Ukai-san.” He says instead, holding onto his bag strap with both hands as he heads out into the crisp spring twilight.

 

Akaashi has never been scared of walking alone at night. He feels more comfortable traversing the dark, deserted streets. There is no expectation to conduct himself a certain way—he doesn’t have to worry about being polite or considerate or exchanging stilted pleasantries with strangers. He can swing his arms as wide as he pleases—though he doesn’t—and he can hum or dance or even recite histrionic Shakespearian verse in a booming, cheesy accent—though he doesn’t do those things, either.

 

What he likes is the freedom to do so if he pleases. It makes his shoulders loosen and his step light. In fact, in the split second it takes a dark figure to reach out of the alleyway, grab him by his satchel strap and slam him against the apartment complex wall, he thinks that maybe the night makes him a little too carefree.

 

He only has time to shout, “hey,” before he’s kneed in the stomach. He doubles over on himself but holds onto his bag with a death grip when the mugger tries to lift it over his head. He’s dragged forward a couple feet and almost loses his footing, but another guy comes up behind him and kicks his knees out from under him, sending him to the ground.

 

“Get his phone,” the guy holding onto his bag demands. Akaashi has a split second to assess his situation. He can’t keep his satchel in his possession with only one arm, and the phone is easier replaced than his computer, so he lets it go.

 

“Stop!” He shouts lamely when he feels a hand slide into his pocket. The phone is plucked out instantly and Akaashi opens his mouth to protest again when arms clamp around his neck in a headlock. He squirms his body around, trying to free himself while simultaneously holding onto his bag. His shins scrape the asphalt, his rubber soles flying as he thrashes around to break the man’s grip. His lungs burn from oxygen deprivation so he gnashes his teeth in warning, pulling his head down to clamp on to the guy’s arm—anything to free himself.

 

He’s just about ready to give up on saving his laptop and claw the fucking dude’s eyes out when the hold on his neck is suddenly released. Akaashi stumbles forward none too gracefully and just manages to catch himself with his hands before he faceplants into asphalt. His whole body is shaking as he sucks in oxygen. Snot drips down his face and he wipes it on his shoulder, licking warm saliva from the corner of his mouth.

 

He doesn’t want to think about how close he came to getting seriously injured, or worse—so he flips his body around to locate his satchel. He fully expects to see the two guys running off with his electronics, but instead finds Bokuto and Kuroo pinning the mugger’s hands behind their backs. Relief washes over him and makes him shake harder. A third person—Kuroo’s friend from the other night—jogs to Akaashi’s side and takes him by the shoulder.

 

The guy bends with his hands on his knees, searching for injuries. “Sawamura Daichi, Kuroo’s my boyfriend.” He explains quickly. “We met a couple months ago—well, sort of.” He shakes his head to refocus himself. “Anyway, that’s not important. Are you okay?”

 

Akaashi sucks in a shaky breath. His satchel is lying in the street, but his laptop is in a case so it should be fine. His phone is on the ground, too. He can’t tell from his position if the screen is shattered or not, but at this exact moment he doesn’t really care. ‘ _At least those assholes didn’t get it_ ,’ he thinks bitterly.

 

“You— _yes_ ,” he corrects. “They didn’t get anything.”

 

Daichi smiles. It makes his eyes crinkle. He pats Akaashi on the back. “No, you idiot. I mean are _you_ okay?”

 

Akaashi does a quick mental inventory: his shoulders and back are sore but not excruciatingly so, and his stomach is a little queasy but that’s probably due more to panic than injury. “Physically, yes.” Then he realizes the ambiguity of his statement and shakes his head to clear it. “I mean it’s not that mentally I’m—the rest will—I can’t change today today, but tomorrow, and time heals all—I mean, yes.” He breathes deeply, amazed at how talkative his fear has made him. “I’m okay.”

 

Daichi looks puzzled. “Was that a quote?”

 

“He reads a lot.” Bokuto calls over his shoulder. He has one of the muggers pressed against the wall, using his long, well-muscled limbs as leverage to keep the guy from struggling.

 

“I don’t re—it’s not. A quote. I mean, maybe it is, but that’s not—“

 

“Got it, got it,” Daichi placates. He stands and looks toward the street. “I already called the police, they said they’ll be here in—“ A distant siren sounds and Daichi raises a finger and points to the end of the alleyway. “Now, apparently! I’ll go grab them.”

 

Akaashi nods numbly. He takes a steadying breath and pulls himself up on still shaking feet. He stands back until the police have cuffed the perpetrators. He knows it’s unlikely they would try anything with so many witnesses—except maybe to flee—but still, Akaashi feels skittish. His fight-or-flight response has him too amped up, all of his senses are turned to eleven and he swears he can _taste_ the air change when Bokuto nears him.

 

Bokuto edges closer in awkward little sidesteps—he glances from Akaashi then back to the cop car, as if to assess if this is okay—if he’s allowed to try to comfort Akaashi now.

 

For Akaashi’s part, he doesn’t know. But he can’t help but feel mildly relieved when Bokuto lifts a hand—ostensibly meant for his back—but then hesitates and lowers it.

 

“That was scary.” Bokuto observes, although his squared shoulders and puffed out chest certainly don’t paint the portrait of someone that was scared. Akaashi figures he’s saying it for his sake, granting him permission to have been frightened. He’s not totally ungrateful for it.

 

“Yeah.” Akaashi breathes shakily. “Thank you for—“

 

“Oh, no problem, no problem.” Bokuto waves it off. He looks ridiculously proud but Akaashi doesn’t begrudge him. The guy saved his life and—maybe more importantly—his laptop. So, if he feels pleased with himself, Akaashi will let him. Today, at least.

 

When the muggers are locked in the back of red and blue flashing police cars, Akaashi walks to his phone. A small crowd has gathered, the apartment complex stirred to life by the sound of sirens. He feels people peering down from their windows, playing private audience to his trepidation as he lifts his phone from the asphalt and pockets it. He’ll assess the damage later, he decides—some time when he’s not being stared down from all angles.

 

They expect tears, probably, or a big show of emotions, preferably ending in a desperate, grateful make-out session with his rescuer. Akaashi’s not really the type for histrionics, though. At least, not ones that don’t involve Shakespeare.

 

Instead, he talks to the cops. They take his number in case they need him to testify in court and offer to call out an ambulance if he needs it. Akaashi turns it down despite Bokuto’s protests. He’s not injured, just exhausted and sore and overwhelmed.

 

Akaashi is emotionless as he watches the cop car—still brightly shining—pull off the curb into the night. The world seems to be set to fast forward—all movement and noise is truncated into a highlight reel of sensations: the hollow, syncopated drumming of four pairs of feet climbing the stairs, a hand on his shoulder, a distant peal of laughter, and Bokuto’s swaying two-toned hair. Before he’s able to link the concepts of “move” and “inside,” he’s stepping into Bokuto’s apartment. Someone else removes his shoes, or maybe he does, but when he steps out of the genkan it’s to the familiar feeling of socks on cold wood laminate floors.

 

“Coffee, anyone?” Bokuto guides Akaashi to the couch and gently pushes him into it. He squeezes his shoulder before leaving him for the kitchen.

 

“He needs tea,” Daichi bumps Bokuto out of the way and plucks the kettle from the oven. Akaashi is grateful. He doesn’t think his nervous stomach can handle coffee at the present time.

 

Kuroo sits on a stool and leans an elbow on the kitchen bar. “Two sugars, no cream.” He tells Bokuto.

 

“Daichi is one of my volleyball friends,” Bokuto tells Akaashi from across the kitchen. “You’ve got to help me convince him to play a game with us!”

 

Akaashi blinks hard when he realizes he’s being addressed. He straightens up a little, fighting back a yawn to try to appear attentive. “Is that so?”

 

“Yup! He and Suga were on the same team.”

 

Akaashi hums in understanding.

 

“You’ve met Suga?” Daichi hands Akaashi a steaming mug of tea and takes a seat next to him on the sofa.

 

“They used to date, you know.” Kuroo sneers from where he’s leaned up against the kitchen bar, watching Bokuto pour water into the coffeemaker.

 

Akaashi raises an eyebrow in question and holds the cup to his mouth, letting the diaphanous steam warm his face.

 

Daichi rolls his eyes to the side and cups the back of his neck. “Yeah, we did. Honestly, we only really did it because everyone said we should.”

 

“That’s because you guys act so lovey dovey all the time.” Kuroo snickers.

 

“That coming from you?” Daichi turns and deadpans at Kuroo who is in the process of brushing an eyelash off Bokuto’s cheek. He turns back to Akaashi. “The break-up was totally amicable. We still love each other, but, y’know, not in _that_ way.”

 

“But we wouldn’t turn him down for a threesome!” Kuroo interrupts again. “That beauty mark is _hot_.”

 

Daichi grabs a magazine from Bokuto’s coffee table and slings it towards his boyfriend. “Enough comments from the peanut gallery!” He bellows. Kuroo slinks back with a stilted laugh and an apology.

 

Daichi takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his hair. “Sometimes, the person that fits you best isn’t the person that makes sense to other people.”

 

“Aw, love you, too, babe!” Kuroo leans his head into his hands and blows a kiss with a wink.

 

Daichi tries to look put out but his mouth tilting into a grin ruins the effect. “Anyway, it’s getting late, we should probably head out.” He pats Akaashi on the knee. “Go to the hospital if you start to feel bad, okay?”

 

Akaashi nods but doesn’t meet his eyes. Now that the shock of being mugged has worn off, embarrassment is edging into his joints. He’s never done well with being the center of attention to begin with, but especially not over something so avoidable as getting jumped right outside his apartment. He wonders what it is that made him look like an easy target. He wonders if other people can see that vulnerability in him, too.

 

“Okay, enough mothering for one night.” Kuroo slings an arm over Daichi’s shoulders. Daichi folds his arms over his chest but doesn’t protest when Kuroo nuzzles his nose into his neck.

 

“Take some painkillers before bed, okay? You’ll probably be sore when you wake up, but ice packs and OTCs should do the trick.” Kuroo fake snores and Daichi rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I better get this big lug home before I have to carry him.”

 

Akaashi places his tea on the coffee table and prepares to stand and see the two out, but Daichi gestures for him to stay.

 

“Thanks for your help, Sawamura-san.” Akaashi says, instead.

 

“Thanks for tolerating Bokuto. These two,” Daichi jerks his thumb towards Bokuto and then Kuroo, “don’t ‘bro out’ as much now that you’re around.”

 

“Are you saying we’re neglecting each other?” Kuroo picks his head up from Daichi’s shoulder with a worried expression. “Bro, we’ve got to fix that.”

 

“Asap, bro,” Bokuto agrees, placing his hand over his heart.

 

Daichi pinches the bridge of his nose with a longsuffering sigh. “Home. Now.” He tells Kuroo, half dragging him out the door.

 

Bokuto snickers when Kuroo starts to sing “Get Lucky” and Daichi hisses, “the only time you’re getting lucky is in your dreams!”

 

Akaashi smirks and takes another sip of tea. He’s still exhausted but the tension of being alone with Bokuto has made him more alert. “So,” he hesitates, questioning if he really wants to know the answer to his question. “How did you guys find me?”

 

“Dumb luck?” Bokuto tries, then, when he realizes Akaashi doesn’t believe him, shrugs a shoulder. “We heard you yelling.”

 

“I wasn’t that loud.”

 

“Well, my window was open, so—“

 

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Isn't it a little cold for that?”

 

“Well, it gets hot with three big guys—wait a minute,” Bokuto shakes his head and blushes. “That sounded dirtier than I meant. It wasn’t like _that_.”

 

Akaashi continues to stare at him, face stoic and unreadable.

 

“I guess, I just—“ Bokuto scratches at his cheek. “I had a bad feeling, and I was—worried, y’know?“ He trails off. “Anyway, are you sure you’re okay?” He slumps next to Akaashi on the couch and leans towards him, eyes wide and searching. “Maybe I should call Daichi back. He’s better at taking care of people than I am. I mean I’m totally useless. I’m an only child, you know?”

 

“I’m fine, Bokuto-san. It’s just some scrapes.” Akaashi slumps backwards and winces when his shoulder grazes the cushion.

 

Bokuto jumps up and hovers his hands over Akaashi’s torso. “Are you o—“

 

“I’m sore, that’s all.” Akaashi assures him, rubbing gingerly at his shoulder.

 

Bokuto sits down again and turns his head to the ceiling with a relieved sigh. “I’ve _got_ to teach you some self defense.”

 

“You’re an expert, are you?” Akaashi rests his cheek against the sofa and closes his eyes.

 

“I’m not, like, trained at fighting or anything,” Bokuto corrects. “But at least I _look_ intimidating. You kinda look like a kitten or like—a baby bird or something.”

 

“Is that so?” Akaashi opens his eyes and glares at Bokuto. His eyes are half-lidded, charged with silent anger, and his mouth is drawn into a thin line. He has the composed yet calculating look of a quietly sadistic mob boss.

 

Bokuto visibly shivers and curls his mouth up into a grimace. “Okay, so maybe you can look a little scary.”

 

Akaashi can’t stop the smile that quirks in the corner of his mouth. “I guess if you’re offering lessons, I wouldn’t say no.”

 

“Seriously?” Bokuto has his hands on his knees and is leaning into Akaashi’s personal space.

 

“At this point it’d just be masochistic not to.”

 

“True.” Bokuto drops his fist into his open palm with finality.

 

“Then again, maybe I am one.”

 

Bokuto starts to nod, then pauses, confused. “What?”

 

“I keep hanging out with you, don’t I?”

 

“That’s a mean thing to say to the guy that just saved your life.”

 

Akaashi snorts out a laugh. The sound is soft and weak and edged in fatigue.

 

“Akaashi, are you falling asleep?”

 

“Nn.” Akaashi mumbles, drawing his body closer to the couch and nuzzling his face into the cushion.

 

“Akaashi, do you remember what happened last time you slept here?”

 

“Nn.” Akaashi swallows thickly and his breathing slows.

 

Bokuto puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head. “You’re really awful when you get sleepy, you know that?” He attempts to scold him but his voice just comes out soft and affectionate.

 

Akaashi doesn’t respond. He’s already firmly footed in the tenuous threshold of near-sleep. He hears Bokuto say something, but the meaning is obscured by twisting walls and the feeling of falling.

 

“I’ll help you to bed. C’mon.” Bokuto pulls him up by his armpits. Akaashi moans and jerks his head with a sniff but he doesn’t pull away, so Bokuto guides his arm over his shoulders for leverage and leads them to Akaashi’s apartment.

 

Bokuto is practically dragging Akaashi up the stairs when he stops halfway to catch his breath. “Y’know, for a skinny guy, you sure weigh a lot.” He gripes, though his voice holds no real malice. He wipes sweat off his forehead and plants both hands on his back, rolling his shoulders till his spine cracks. “Don’t remember this and get mad, okay?” He asks Akaashi’s dozing, slumped form.

 

Bokuto hops a few steps below Akaashi and leans his body over his shoulder in a Fireman’s carry. Miraculously, Akaashi doesn’t stir.

 

‘ _He must be really worn out_ ,’ Bokuto thinks with pity.

 

It’s easier to traverse the stairs in this position. In a matter of minutes, Bokuto has Akaashi safely tucked into bed. He doesn’t change his clothes, mostly because he’s afraid of the consequences if he does. He also doesn’t set an alarm because he doesn’t know where Akaashi’s phone is.

 

“I’ll come wake you up bright and early, okay?” Bokuto whispers over him. He knows Akaashi is asleep, but he feels like he should reassure him, anyway. This is his moment for redemption and he refuses to squander it. He reaches down and pulls the covers closer to Akaashi’s neck, grazing a thumb softly across his cheek. “Night, Akaashi.”

 

He turns to leave but is stopped when a hand reaches out and grabs him by the sleeve.

 

“Oh my god,” Bokuto gasps quietly and covers his mouth with his hand. “This is just like a shoujo manga.” He wishes he had his phone on him to take a picture, but he compensates by staring unblinking at the scene till his eyes burn, trying to dedicate every trivial detail to memory. He catalogues it all: the way Akaashi’s silky black hair curls around his cheekbone, the way his faded, ostensibly vintage band shirt dips down his shoulder, revealing the slightest peak of collar bone, even the freckle on his third knuckle and the small callous on his thumb clenched tightly into Bokuto's jacket feel significant enough to be remembered.

 

Bokuto thinks he was wrong to compare this guy to a kitten or a baby bird because surely he’s much, _much_ cuter than either of them.

 

+

 

The next evening, Akaashi lounges on his sofa, thumbing through a science fiction novel with his textbooks strewn over the coffee table across from him. He is sore and a little bruised, but otherwise no worse for wear. Anyway, for reasons that seem fundamentally ineffable, he feels better—lighter—than he has in ages.

 

His phone—the screen still intact by some miracle—buzzes from the armrest.

 

 **To: Akaashi**  
**From: Bokuto  
** **Subject: (No Subject)**

**When u working next?**

Akaashi quickly considers the consequences of telling him, and finding no real threat in doing so, responds.

 

 **To: Bokuto**  
**From: Akaashi  
** **Subject: (No Subject)**

**Tomorrow 9-1am**

The reply comes almost instantly.

 

 **To: Akaashi**  
**From: Bokuto  
** **Subject: (No Subject)**

**Cool! I’ll walk u. ^^b**

Akaashi rolls his eyes and taps the edge of the phone to his chin, smiling despite himself. His phone buzzes again and he pulls it back to read the message.

 

 **To: Akaashi**  
**From: Bokuto  
** **Subject: (No Subject)**

**Goodnight Akaashi! Sweet dreams!!**

Akaashi huffs and puts the phone back on the armrest behind him. “Goodnight, Bokuto-san,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Akaashi drinks tea a lot, apparently. Me and him have that in common. Sorry if this chapter felt a little long in coming, I took off for California with my girlfriend right after posting the last one and wasn't able to write till we got back. I'll try to be faster with the last two. 
> 
> Thank you guys soooo much for your kudos and kind comments. They really encouraged me to persist through my jetlag. As always, my editing patience is zilch (I'm lazy, I know. argh) so please forgive egregious mistakes. I will fix them before posting the next chapter. 
> 
> And as always, feel free to chat with me over on my tumblr, youremarvelous. Thanks, loves!


	3. Summer

“What’s up Akaashi, you seem more—“ Bokuto taps his cheek with the ends of his chopsticks as he considers. “Um—what’s the word? It’s starts with a “w.” Withstand—withhold—“

 

Akaashi plucks up a string of noodles and dips them in ponzu sauce. “Withdrawn?”

 

Bokuto nods fervently and snaps his chopsticks together in the air. “Yeah, that’s it!”

 

“I’m fine, just—“ Akaashi brings the noodles to his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My sister’s high school graduation is next weekend.”

 

“That’s awesome!” Bokuto says with genuine enthusiasm. He reaches for a slice of beef and makes exaggerated hums of contentment as he eats it.

 

“Yeah, it is.” Akaashi agrees. He takes a sip of water and rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb to collect any stray sauce. “But—“

 

Bokuto swallows hard and rubs at his mouth with his sleeve. “But?”

 

“Nn. Nevermind.” Akaashi turns his eyes back to the boiling hot pot and fishes around the contents for a shiitake mushroom.

 

Bokuto straightens up and watches Akaashi. “Akaashi-i.” He whines, his lips pushing up into a pout.

 

“I think the broth might be a little too salty.” Akaashi pops the mushroom in his mouth and stares at his oil spotted napkin.

 

“Hey, don’t change the subject.”

 

“Can we open a window? It’s too warm with this hot plate going.” Akaashi puts his napkin on the table and prepares to stand but Bokuto catches him by the wrist.

 

“Akaashi.” His eyebrows are arched high and his eyes shine soft and pleading. “Tell me what’s going on?”

 

Akaashi turns his eyes to the ceiling and sighs. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t complain.”

 

“I complain to you when my shows are rescheduled. Or that one time they discontinued my favorite cereal.”

 

“That stuff was probably toxic, anyway.” Akaashi winces. “It was basically 90% sugar.”

 

“Do you know how much energy it gave me!? And it turned my milk lime green!”

 

Akaashi exhales through his nose with a slight laugh and relents. “I’m going home—to my parent’s home—this weekend. The graduation ceremony is on Saturday so—I’ll only be there overnight, but—" Akaashi’s mouth turns up into a slight grimace. “I don’t particularly like being there, that’s all.”

 

Bokuto brings his fist under his chin and squints. “Hmmmmm. Akaashi, I have a solution.”

 

Akaashi raises his eyebrows in question.

 

“Take me with you.”

 

Akaashi gives a small half smile and shakes his head. “Not possible, Bokuto-san.”

 

“But why not?”

 

“You have school.”

 

“I’m already done for the summer.”

 

“But work—“

 

“You know I don’t work.”

 

Akaashi opens his mouth, searching his mind for a reason this can’t possibly be a viable option.

 

“Don’t think so hard, you’ll hurt yourself.” Bokuto smirks.

 

“I’m not you.” Akaashi deadpans back. “Anyway, I can’t just invite a stranger over to my parents’ house.”

 

“I’m not a stranger!” Bokuto protests. “I’m your neighbor!” He pauses then adds, “and your friend!”

 

“But you’re a stranger to _them_.”

 

Bokuto folds his arms high over his chest and rolls his eyes to the ceiling with a wide smile. “Just ask. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

 

Akaashi thinks about how different his relationship with his parents must be from Bokuto’s and his if he thinks “just asking” is such an easy task. Akaashi's heart turn cold at the thought of imposing on his parents. There aren’t many things he fears in this world, but something about them has always inspired apprehension. They had never raised a hand against him, not in any way that strayed from conventional discipline, anyway. But no one else possesses the ability to dress him down quite as thoroughly as they can.

 

He has vivid memories of fierce orations delivered from pinched faces in frighteningly calm voices. They would pull him into the kitchen, sit opposite from him at the table, and address him like a boss would their employee. Then, in those same composed but firm voices, they would transmit words that cut into his flesh, lodging deep inside his marrow and mixing into his blood stream until they became indistinguishable from his own personal narrative.

 

Back then, he wished they would just raise their voices, yell, slam their fists on the table, or go red in the face. Then, their inventory of all the ways he was a failure would seem less premeditated. Then, maybe he could stomach family dinners without feeling like a criminal undergoing interrogation.

 

Akaashi places his chopsticks across his napkin, his appetite gone.

 

Bokuto reaches his hand across the table and lets his fingertips grazes Akaashi’s. “You okay over there? You look pale.”

 

“I’ll do it.” Akaashi says, looking resigned.

 

“Do what?”

 

“I’ll ask them.” He looks from their joined hands to Bokuto’s warm, golden eyes. “If you’re serious about coming, anyway.”

 

Bokuto wraps his hand around Akaashi’s and squeezes hard, a bright, toothy smile spreading across his face. “Of course I’m serious!”

 

+

 

“I can’t believe I get to see where Akashi grew up.” Bokuto presses his palms against the train window. His breath fogs the passing landscape as the tall buildings grow denser and the blue sky is cloaked in a hazy gray film.

 

“It’s not that exciting.” Akaashi crosses his legs and folds his arms over his lap. “They changed my room into a home office when I moved out.”

                                                                                                                

“I know what you mean,” Bokuto finally backs away from the window and stretches out in his seat. “My Mom couldn’t wait till I moved out so she could turn my room into a sewing studio. She does alterations for extra money and makes these little felt stitch animals.” Bokuto leans his head back and scratches his cheek. “They’re pretty cute, actually. But it’s creepy sleeping in a room full of them. All those beady little eyes watching me.” He draws his arms to his torso and shivers.

 

Akaashi smirks a little. “They’ll have us sleep in the guest room. I assure you there are no beady eyes to be found.”

 

Bokuto exhales and relaxes as though he had genuinely been worried about it. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to just stay one night? You didn’t go home for the holidays, I’m sure your parents miss you.”

 

Akaashi shrugs and leans his elbow on the armrest closest to the window. “It’s fine.”

 

Bokuto hums thoughtfully and purses his lips together, impatiently tapping his foot on the floor. “Hey, Akaashi?”

 

“What is it Bokuto-san?”

 

“What’s your favorite color?”

 

Akaashi looks skeptical. “What does it matter?”

 

“C’mon, I’m bo-ored,” Bokuto whines. He leans forward on the train bench and pushes Akaashi’s knee. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine!”

 

Akaashi pulls his backpack into his lap and takes out an orange, trying to ignore the sudden prickly sensation in his knee. “Um…blue, I guess? Gray’s okay, too.” He keeps his eyes down as he peels the orange—bright bits of citrus embedding themselves under his nails. He steadfastly does not say gold, though he thinks it.

 

“Gray’s not really a color, though.” Bokuto draws his high arching eyebrows closer to his hairline in a judgmental sneer.

 

“So blue,” Akaashi says, placing bits of peel in a neat stack beside him.

 

“That’s boring, Akaashi.”

 

“What’s yours then?” Akaashi pulls away a slice of orange and hands it over to Bokuto.

 

“Thanks,” Bokuto smiles and pops the piece of citrus into his mouth. “Orange! I mean—the color, not the fruit.” He licks stray drops of sticky juice from his fingers. “Yellow is good, too. Oh! And pink!”

 

“Hm,” Akaashi hums and bites down on a slice of orange. The tart juice bursts in his mouth and makes him salivate.

 

“It’s your turn to ask me something!” Bokuto prompts, accepting gratefully when Akaashi passes him another piece of fruit.

 

“Okay, well,” Akaashi turns his eyes to the ceiling in thought as he sucks the remnants of citrus from his thumb. “What’s your—favorite season?”

 

“Easy,” Bokuto waves his hand in the air as if he were answering an especially difficult trivia question. “Spring.”

 

“Yeah, I probably could’ve guessed that.”

 

“Okay, so let me guess yours then.” Bokuto sits at the end of his seat and leans with his elbows over his knees, head bent in deep concentration. “Autumn?”

 

Akaashi folds the orange remnants into a napkin. “Yeah, I guess. But I like the winter, too. I think it’s misunderstood.”

 

“Misunderstood?”

 

“Yeah, well,” Akaashi shrugs noncommittally and rolls a seed between his thumb and index finger. “Take plants, for example. Most people probably think the snow comes and kills them all, right? But actually, the snow insulates the ground. It kills off bugs and keeps plant watered and protected from the wind—I mean, the snow _can_ squash them, kill them, whatever, but it can also help them become stronger.”

 

Bokuto bobs his head up and down, eyes wide.

 

“This is of no interest to you whatsoever, huh?” Akaashi gives a sideways smile and plunks the seed into the napkin with the rest of the fruit debris.

 

“No, no.” Bokuto throws up a hand in apology. “I know basically nothing about gardening but that’s really cool.”

 

“Yeah, me neither. I mean, I’ve never gardened.”

 

“Then how do you—“ Bokuto starts to ask, before realizing it’s a stupid question and scooting further back into his seat.

 

“Books.” He and Akaashi answer simultaneously.

 

They look at each other and laugh—Bokuto with his head leaned back, unguarded and raucous, Akaashi with a knuckle pressed under his nose, quiet and short.

 

“We should try it, then!” Bokuto swings a confident fist in the air.

 

“What, gardening? Bokuto-san, we live in an apartment.”

 

“Oh,” Bokuto’s head slumps and he slaps his hand to his forehead. “Right.”

 

Akaashi watches him, slightly concerned at the slope of Bokuto’s shoulder, which tends to indicate an imminent dejected mood. “I guess we could use a window box.” He suggests. The squeezing in his heart abates when Bokuto darts back up, looking to him with trusting, golden eyes.

 

“Really!?”

 

“Well, we’d have to get it approved by management but—“ Akaashi shrugs and pulls each of his fingers back, popping his knuckles. “I don’t see why not.”

 

“What should we grow?”

 

Akaashi tilts his head in thought. “We have time to think about it, it would probably be best to wait until next spring. I’ll pick some books up at work and see what they recommend for our region.”

 

“You’re the best, Akaashi.” Bokuto beams. “I can’t wait till spring.”

 

It’s not until several minutes later when Akaashi is hunched in on himself in his seat, trying to take a nap, that he realizes he’s made plans for the future—plans that involve Bokuto. He can’t find it in himself to see this as a problem.

 

+

 

“Mom? We’re here.” Akaashi gestures Bokuto into his parents’ flat. They toe their shoes off in the doorway and Akaashi pads down the hallway, turning his head this way and that in search of his family.

 

“Keiji,” his mother comes out of the bedroom, she has her hands behind her back, trying to fasten the chain on a string of pearls. “You’re late.”

 

“Sorry, the station was busy and we had trouble catching a taxi.”

 

Akaashi’s mother finally manages to secure the necklace clasp and lowers her arms back down, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in her navy shift dress.

 

“Well, you should get changed. We have to leave in just a few minutes. Your sister has already left for school with her friends.”

 

“Okay, Mom. Uh—“ Akaashi turns back towards Bokuto and gestures towards him. “This is the friend I told you about, Bokuto Koutarou.”

 

“Bokuto-kun, nice to meet you.” Akaashi’s mother pinches her lips together and bows impatiently. “Now you boys go change.”

 

“Nice to meet you, too!” Bokuto calls over his shoulder as Akaashi drags him by the forearm to the guest room.

 

Bokuto drops his backpack on the floor and unzips it, digging around for his dress shirt. “She seems, um—“

 

Akaashi pulls his t-shirt off over his head, upsetting a few curls on the back of his head. “You don’t have to say she’s nice.” He looks up to where Bokuto is buttoning his shirt and sighs. “You missed one.” Akaashi steps over to Bokuto and takes it upon himself to fix it. His nimble fingers make quick work of realigning the buttons to their correct holes. He pats out the shirt when he’s done, brushing down Bokuto’s chest and across his arms. “It’s wrinkled, my Mom will definitely say something. Maybe you should stand in the bathroom with a hot shower on.”

 

Bokuto gives a half-hearted shrug. “They’re just wrinkles.” He reaches out for the back of Akaashi’s head and finger combs the errant hairs. “You look a lot like her, you know.”

 

Akaashi jumps back, suddenly hyper aware of his half-naked form. He quickly goes for his own shirt and pulls it on just as his mother yells, “five minute warning, boys!”

 

“Everyone says that.” Akaashi confides.

 

“Well, you do.” Bokuto dips his head with a laugh. He starts to say something else, his hand just beginning to reach out for Akaashi when he’s interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

 

“Are you boys ready? The taxi is here.”

 

Akaashi and Bokuto grab their dress shoes and dash out of the room. They exchange pleasantries with Akaashi’s dad before all piling into the taxi.

 

The school is bustling with activity when they arrive. Akaashi tries to surreptitiously wipe off the beading sweat from his brow onto his shoulder when they step out onto the curb. Not much has changed from what he remembers. The building seems somehow smaller and the students look younger, but the bright blue lockers are the same, as are the low-hanging, devastatingly unflattering fluorescent lights, and the general air of teenage angst and raging hormones.

 

“You okay?” Bokuto whispers into Akaashi’s ear for what feels like the tenth time since they’ve arrived at the school.

 

Akaashi isn’t sure why Bokuto is so worried for him. He’s straddling the junction of being endeared by his concern and being annoyed by it. It doesn’t help that the sensation of Bokuto’s breath so close to his ear is making his face hotter than the combined efforts of his dress shirt and the oppressive summer heat.

 

“I’m fine, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says, whipping his head around when he hears someone calling out his name.

 

“Akaashi-kun, long time no see!” A familiar face emerges from the dense crowd.

 

“Ah, Konoha-san!” Akaashi's face lifts with recognition at the sight of his old friend. “I forgot our siblings are in the same grade.”

 

“You’ve probably forgotten a lot of things since you never visit us!” Konoha teases, elbowing Akaashi in the side.

 

Akaashi has the decency to look embarrassed. “Mm. Right. Sorry about that.”

 

Konoha leers knowingly and turns to Bokuto. “So who’s this?”

 

“Bokuto Koutarou. He’s my—“ Akaashi looks to Bokuto, his mouth hangs slightly open as if he expects Bokuto’s face to supply the answer. “Neighbor. Friend. He’s my friend and my neighbor. Bokuto-san, this is Konoha Akinori. We played volleyball together in high school.”

 

“Oh!” Bokuto slams a fist into his palm. “Always nice to meet a fellow volleyball player!”

 

“You play, Bokuto-kun?” Konoha asks with a smile.

 

“Yup!” Bokuto gives a thumbs-up, his chest puffed out with pride. “I’m a wing spiker! Oh!” He suddenly shouts, eyes open wide in sudden realization. He threads his fingers together and holds them in front of his chest in a desperate plea. “You’ve gotta tell me all about playing with Akaashi! He won’t tell me anything about it.”

 

Konoha’s eyes soften and he pats Akaashi on the shoulder. “Well then, you and Akaashi should come over to my place after the ceremony. I’d be happy to share all this guy’s secrets with you.” He turns to Akaashi. “Komi’s there, too. We can all catch up.”

 

“Sure." Akaashi agrees easily. Even if he doesn't necessarily want to hear Konoha regale Bokuto with embarrassing high school stories, he's still grateful for the opportunity to be out of his parents' house. "That sounds nice.”

 

“Cool, I’ll text you the address.” Konoha drops his hand and tilts his head down into a small bow pointed at Bokuto. “Nice to meet you, Bokuto-kun. I'll see you guys around.”

 

Bokuto returns the bow and waves. “See you!"

 

+

 

Dinner is awkwardly quiet. Akaashi's father asks about the train ride and his mother comments on the ceremony—too garish and rowdy for her taste, but to be expected of a high school graduation—before all conversation gives way to the the sounds of throats clearing and chopsticks scraping ceramic. Bokuto glances around from face to face, fidgeting and unsure of how to act in this kind of repressed family environment. 

 

He jumps up when the meal is finished and trails after Akaashi's mom. “Can I help you with the dishes, Aunty?”

 

“That’s not necessary, Bokuto-kun.” She tells him, brushing non-existent debris from the straight, gray slacks she had changed into after arriving home.

 

Akaashi's father excuses himself to his home office and his mother begins to stack plates. Akaashi picks up empty glasses and follow his mother to the kitchen. “Mom, Bokuto-san and I are going to go see Akinori-san tonight.”

 

Her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly and she tucks a swath of straight black hair behind her ear. “You shouldn’t bother him, Keiji. He has his uncle's store to run."

 

“He’s the one that invited us." Akaashi tells her, glancing back at Bokuto who is hovering awkwardly in the high arching threshold between the kitchen and dining room.

 

“That boy drinks too much. I don’t think he’s a good influence.”

 

“It’s just for a couple hours, Mom.” Akaashi persists.

 

His mother stares at the dishes, tight-lipped, and scrubs at a pan with a scouring pad a little harder than strictly necessary. “If that’s the choice you think you should be making.”

 

Akaashi hears the judgment dripping from her words but Bokuto is already pulling him to the door by the elbow. "We'll be back soon, Aunty!" Bokuto calls, trying to sound more chipper than he feels.

 

Akaashi turns on him once they are safely in the hallway. “We shouldn’t go. She’s mad.”

 

“Really?” Bokuto pulls his head back, looking confused. “She didn’t seem mad to me.”

 

"She is." Akaashi insists. "I'll just call Konoha and tell him we can't make it."

 

Bokuto tilts his head and blinks. "But I thought you wanted to see him."

 

“I do, but—“

 

“If your mom's mad, she’ll get over it. It’ll be fine, Akaashi. You’re an adult.”

 

Akaashi takes a deep, steadying breath. Bokuto is right. He knows he is. Still, anxiety and guilt leave his insides raw, born from years of being all but told he isn't enough, that he doesn't measure up to the high expectations set for him. Akaashi tucks the feelings away into the hidden spaces in his mind, carefully clearing all signs of stress from his physique. He isn't a child, anymore, and he can't blame his parents for missed opportunities.

 

Bokuto throws an arm over his shoulders and ruffles his hair. “You’re okay, right?”

 

Akaashi is startled but doesn’t pull away when Bokuto guides them towards the sidewalk. He doesn’t know how to explain that—even though Bokuto doesn’t know where they’re headed—he still seems to be the one leading the way.

 

“Fine,” Akaashi affirms. And he thinks for once maybe he really will be.

 

+

 

Konoha wastes no time in handing off beers once they arrive at his apartment. He shares the place with Komi, who immediately finds his way to Bokuto’s side. The two guys talk animatedly about volleyball and high school stories and compare their respective unique hairstyles.

 

Akaashi watches fondly from his spot on the couch. He’s not much of a drinker typically, but the residual stress of dealing with his parents’ subtle microaggressions has left him in a dour mood. He just wants to forget about it and relax and enjoy the company of the friends he hasn’t seen in the better part of a year.

 

Konoha sits next to him and pats him on the knee. “How you holding up, Akaashi? Your parents behaving themselves?”

 

“As well as can be expected.” Akaashi shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bokuto asks, separating himself from Komi and leaning over Akaashi’s shoulders from behind.

 

“Oh, you don’t know?” Konoha rests back against the couch and looks to Akaashi. “Sorry, not trying to air your dirty laundry.”

 

Akaashi waves a hand. “It’s okay.” He turns to Bokuto. “I came out to my parents right before leaving for University. I haven’t really visited since then, so—“ Akaashi shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. “I didn’t really know how things would go. It’s fine, though, I mean. They’re still talking to me.”

 

Konoha laughs but there is no joy in it. “That’s a pretty low expectation.”

 

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees quickly. He nods in his characteristically aggressive way.

 

Akaashi isn’t comfortable being the recipient of such blatant pity from his friends. He re-crosses his legs and clears his throat. “It’ll probably get better over time.”

 

“But man, I can’t believe you brought your boyfriend over to meet them.” Konoha slaps Akaashi on the shoulder and smirks. “That was pretty ballsy.”

 

Bokuto opens his mouth to speak but Akaashi cuts him off. “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends.”

 

“Oh, seriously? I thought that was just a front. So—are you seeing anyone?”

 

Akaashi turns his eyes to the ceiling and tilts his head with an internal sigh. “No. I dated a few people, but—turns out my taste in guys isn’t that great.”

 

Bokuto scoffs and points an accusatory finger at Akaashi. “When I met this guy he was being punched by an ex.”

 

“What!?” Komi grabs his stomach with his hands in an uproarious peal of giggles. “How the mighty have fallen.”

 

Konoha flicks Akaashi on the temple. “Be more careful, idiot. I don’t want to have to worry about you. You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

 

“He never laid a hand on me while we were together!” Akaashi protests.

 

“Oh,” Konoha smiles evilly into his beer. “Still a virgin, then?”

 

Akaashi groans and covers his face with his hands. “That’s not what I meant and can we _please_ stop talking about my love life?”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Konoha gives a light push on Akaashi's bicep. “You shouldn’t sleep with someone that would punch you, anyway. Fuck that guy.”

 

“Yeah, fuck that guy!” Komi repeats, pumping his fist in the air. “No one messes with Akaashi!”

 

Akaashi huffs out a short laugh and lets his hands drop into his lap. Bokuto’s face is flushed and for a brief moment Akaashi worries he might have a fever, but then Komi pushes him towards a pile of old yearbooks and he lets the worry slide.

 

Akaashi sets his cup on the table. The world tips a little on its axis and he shakes his head to clear it. “We should probably go, we’ve got an early train tomorrow.”

 

“Aw, so soon?” Komi whines.

 

Konoha nods in understanding. “You should come visit us again, some time. Just stay here, your parents don’t even need to know you’re in town.”

 

“Why don’t you come visit me so I don’t have to be a bad son?” Akaashi gives a sly smile.

 

“Hush, you.” Konoha chides. He grabs Akaashi around the shoulders and squeezes. “Your parents don’t know how lucky they are.”

 

Akaashi breathes in the smell of his old friend and thinks that, in reality, he’s the truly lucky one.

 

+

 

The walk home takes longer than the walk there. Akaashi’s limbs are lazy with alcohol and—despite the fact that it’s past midnight—sweat drips down his neck from the still stifling summer humidity. He fans himself and grumbles about the heat and trips over his own feet for the third time that evening before Bokuto puts an arm around his back to steady him. Akaashi hopes he can’t feel his perspiration through the back of his shirt.

 

“Your friends are nice.”

 

“Yeah, I feel a little guilty for neglecting them.”

 

“I think they understand, though.”

 

“Mmhmm.” Akaashi is hit by a wave of exhaustion and lets his head droop onto Bokuto’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, don’t fall asleep. Dragging you up the stairs is not as easy as you’d think.”

 

“I’m sorry that you know that from experience.” Akaashi mumbles and Bokuto chuckles.

 

Their lighthearted air clears instantaneously when they reenter Akaashi’s parents’ apartment. They try to move quietly from the door to the guest room, but Akaashi’s mom catches them. She sits at the table in a matching blue and green striped pajama set with a cup of tea between her fingers. She stirs it slowly, pulling out the spoon and placing it on a napkin when Akaashi draws near. “You reek of alcohol.”

 

Akaashi signals for Bokuto to return to the guest room and waits for him to clear the hall before addressing her. He moves to the other side of the table but doesn’t sit. “I didn’t drink that much.”

 

“You expect me to believe that? You can hardly stay upright.”

 

“I’m just tired.”

 

“You’re setting an awful example for your sister.” She squints her eyes at him and pinches her lips together. “You haven’t been doing _drugs_ , have you?”

 

“What?” Akaashi furrows his eyebrows together, simultaneously stunned and offended. “No, I’ve never—“

 

“Well, I don’t know what to believe, Keiji.” His mother compulsively rubs the back of her spoon over a napkin, despite the fact that it is already clean. “You go out gallivanting around town—doing who knows what with your boyfriend—”

 

“Bokuto’s not my boyfriend, Mom.”

 

She drops the spoon and snaps her head up at him. “And you lie to me. Since when have you started to lie to me, Keiji?”

 

Akaashi’s voice cracks when he speaks and he mentally berates himself for being so weak. “I’m not.”

 

“Your father and I are trying very hard to—to process this—“ she turns her eyes away and gestures vaguely in Akaashi’s direction. “You wanted space and we gave it to you. You want to date boys and we don’t object, but I won’t tolerate you lying to me in my own home.” She stares into her tea and shakes her head. “Do you know how hard this has all been on us? And then to have you act this way— I don’t recognize this person in front of me. He is not the son I know.”

 

Akaashi doesn’t know what to say. His blood has turned to ice. He _hasn’t_ lied, yet still, he feels guilty. He hasn’t been perfectly kind to her, there were moments where he probably could’ve tried to be more understanding, could’ve tried to make his existence more palatable somehow, or even—

 

His mother sighs and pushes back from the table. She picks up her cup and spoon and places them in the sink, walking past Akaashi without a second look. “Your father has work early in the morning, please try not to make a lot of noise.”

 

Akaashi watches her leave, wishing she’d come back—wishing for resolution. When he finally pulls himself together and makes his way to the guest room, Bokuto is sitting on the side of the bed, already dressed in his pajamas, nervously fiddling with his phone. He jumps up when Akaashi enters. “Hey! Everything okay?”

 

Akaashi doesn’t want to respond, but he also doesn’t want to worry Bokuto. He kneels down next to his satchel and stares at it dumbly, as if the items he requires will jump into his hand from pure force of will alone. “It was fine.”

 

“Really?”

 

Akaashi closes his eyes and flops his head over on his shoulder. “She thinks I’m lying to her.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Us dating.”

 

Bokuto slumps back on the bed—balancing his weight on the heels of his palms—and tilts his head back. “Oh.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Bokuto picks his head back up, eyebrows furrowed towards his hairline. “For what?”

 

“That everyone keeps thinks you’re dating me. I know that must be awkward for you, since you’re straight.”

 

“Oh.” Bokuto says again, then scratches at the side of his head. “Well, I don’t mind. I’m not really straight, anyway. I mean, to be honest, I don’t really think about it.”

 

Akaashi feels his mouth run dry and whips his head around. “What do you mean you don’t think about it? What’s ‘it’?”

 

“Erm, gender, I guess?”

 

“Are you sure you’re not just confused because all your friends are gay?”

 

Bokuto looks at him skeptically, chin tilted back with a smug, half-lidded grin. “Are _you_ confused, Akaashi?”

 

“Yes.” Akaashi says seriously. His delivery is so deadpan that Bokuto has to hide his mouth in the crease of his elbow to stifle the sound of laughter.

 

“Have you ever dated a guy?”

 

“No, but I haven’t really dated anyone. Not for a long time, anyway.” Bokuto stares at his lap and taps his fingertips on his knees. “ I was in a rough spot with my moods for a while, so I wasn’t really in a state to be seeing anyone.” His teeth clack together into an apologetic smile and he shrugs. “You know how it goes.”

 

“Yeah,” Akaashi agrees, even though he really, _really_ doesn’t. He stares at Bokuto. The guy always looks so unaffected—he’s cheerful and gregarious and confident. Akaashi thinks about how quick he was to size him up, and how there were so many surprising aspects to his life and personality he could’ve never conjured up just by looking at him. The feeling is humbling.

 

“Do your parents know?” Akaash isn’t sure why he asks it, maybe to test the normalcy of his parents’ reaction—to somehow feel less alone in his experience.

 

“Ah, yeah. My Mom and I are pretty close, so, I tell her everything.”

 

“And she was okay with it?”

 

Bokuto looks hesitant to answer. He runs a hand through his hair and breathes deeply. “She’s always been, like, the weirdly progressive one in her family. I mean, I’ve only ever seen her with pink hair and she let me get my ears pierced when I was five. You don’t even want to know how close she got to letting me change my name to Godzilla when I was eight.” He puts his arms in front of him like a dinosaur and mimes knocking a building down—complete with sound effects. He lets his arms fall back to his side and laughs. “My Dad talked her out of it.”

 

Akaashi thinks how odd it is for Bokuto to try to soften the blow of what really can only be interpreted as good news.

 

“So anyway,” Bokuto shrugs. “She said as long as I’m happy, that’s all that matters.”

 

“That’s good.” Akaashi nods numbly and then takes a sharp breath. “That’s really good. She sounds nice.”

 

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees. “But I’m sure your parents feel the same, even if they’re kinda super bad at showing it.”

 

“They don’t.” Akaashi says simply and busies himself with searching through his bag for his toothbrush. His eyes feel hot and uncomfortably dry. He hears the bedsprings squeak when he rubs at them, and a large, warm hand is outstretched across his back.

 

“If they can’t see how awesome you are, that’s their problem.” Bokuto’s mouth is so close he can feel his breath on his ear again. The strange tension in Akaashi’s stomach makes his skin crawl. “Your friends love you, I love you—let your parents’ problems be their problems, yeah?”

 

Akaashi tries to think of something to respond with, but his brain is caught up on trying to comprehend whether or not he has just received a confession. “I guess.” He says finally and shrugs Bokuto’s hand off.

 

Bokuto doesn’t seem offended. He takes the hint and gets back in bed. It’s small gestures like this that endear Bokuto to Akaashi. The things he does are often surprising, but Akaashi finds—for once—he doesn’t really mind the unpredictability. He feels safe and comfortable with Bokuto. Like he could expose every embarrassing aspect of himself and not be judged for it.

 

Akaashi doesn’t know if that’s love. He doesn’t have a lot of expertise on the subject. But it feels good. He excuses himself to the bathroom and leans his head in the doorway as he brushes his teeth. He stares at his parents’ door—dark and closed off. He remembers all the times as a kid when he would get sick in the night and travel to their room only to find he was locked out. It was an excruciatingly lonely feeling, but in many ways it encapsulated his relationship with them. They were there but closed off, unavailable to him, unknowable.

 

He turns and looks at the open door of the guest bedroom—at the silhouette moving through the rectangle of yellow light—someone waiting for him. His mind is a tumult of guilt and self-loathing and resentment, but underneath it all, running cold and deep like a current, he feels lucky.

 

+

 

Akaashi doesn’t sleep well. He falls asleep quickly, like he usually does after consuming copious amounts of alcohol, but he wakes up in the middle of the night—completely alert and riddled with anxiety.

 

His head hurts and he’s thirsty, but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it. He lies on his futon, staring at Bokuto’s silhouetted form and running his teeth back and forth across his dried out bottom lip.

 

His mind is whirring, desperately raking the sands of his memory and surfacing every quiet insecurity until they are loud and important and unignorable. He knows it’s the aftereffects of the alcohol sinking him into the depths of a depressive mood, but his skin feels especially oppressive—his very being offensive. He wants to be a better person—someone caring and kind and full of smiles and light, but he just _can’t_. He can’t be the son he knows his parents want him to be, and he can’t fulfill— _whatever_ it is Bokuto wants from him.

 

Akaashi doesn’t even know how he feels about the guy. He likes the idea of being liked by him. He finds him attractive but he doesn’t know if that extends to sex. He doesn’t even know if he’s _ever_ felt sexually attracted to _anyone_ and that thought alone is so disconcerting he pushes it away just like he did when he was a kid first experimenting with AVs and discovering his romantic interest in men.

 

Akaashi doesn’t understand why it all seems so easy for other people. He can do the so-called difficult things like reading maps or assembling Ikea furniture or solving difficult math equations, but test him with interpersonal relationships and he will fail every time. There’s something intrinsically wrong with him, he decides—some sort of empathy chip that went missing in manufacturing.

 

His body is thrumming with self-loathing. He feels it so acutely it manifests a physical identity—clamping down on his lungs and making his breaths fast and high. He covers his face with his forearm and concentrates on quashing defeatist thinking and overcoming melancholy with clinical reasoning. There is no way he’s the worst person in the world. He does care about other people, even if he’s bad at showing it. He’s not incapable of love. Probably.

 

Akaashi is doing breathing exercises (pull in breath to the top of the head, breathe out and move breath to the base of the spine), when Bokuto’s soft, sleep muddled voice sounds. “Mn. Akaashi?” He snuffs in a staccato breath and sits up on his elbow. “You okay?”

 

Akaashi slips his arm up enough to reveal his eyes. “Can’t sleep.” He says. He is pleased that he manages to only sound tired, rather than in the midst of some sort of existential crisis.

 

Bokuto reaches a hand down and brushes a curl from the side of Akaashi’s face. “You got a hangover? Those things suck so bad. One time I threw up in my own shoe cause I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.”

 

Akaashi smiles a little, the vice around his heart easing slightly. He feels his ears burn under Bokuto’s scrutiny, but he hopes it’s hidden by the dark of the room. “I’m fine. Sorry to wake you, Bokuto-san.”

 

Bokuto doesn’t lie back down. Akaashi can’t see his expression in the dark but he swears he can hear the gears turning in Bokuto’s head.

 

“It’s probably hard to sleep on the floor, why don’t you come up to the bed.”

 

Akaashi shakes his head before realizing Bokuto can’t see him. “A guest shouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

 

“There’s plenty of room on the bed for both of us.”

 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi starts to argue.

 

“I won’t go back to sleep till you move your butt up here.”

 

Akaashi lets out a longsuffering sigh. He wants to argue and be obstinate, but he knows refusing will just mean falling victim to one of Bokuto’s dejected moods, so he relents and stands. Bokuto scoots closer to the wall to give him room and Akaashi tucks himself stiffly into bed. He lies on the very edge of the mattress, turned away from Bokuto with the blankets clenched tightly between his fists.

 

Bokuto doesn’t seem to notice his body language, or at least he doesn’t read anything into it. Akaashi jerks a little in surprise when Bokuto’s cold fingers thread into his hair. It’s not like the massage from a few months ago, this time the touch is less focused but more tender. Bokuto doesn’t try to apply pressure, he twirls Akaashi’s dark curls around his fingers, gently scratching at the nape of his neck and then stretching his fingers across his scalp till they graze his ears.

 

“Is this okay?” Bokuto asks uncharacteristically quietly. He sounds sleepy. His voice is softer than usual. The sound of it is so intimate Akaashi has to hold his breath to keep from shuddering.

 

Akaashi doesn’t reply at first, scared to break the spell. But then Bokuto starts to draw his hand away so he nods hard and whispers, “yes.”

 

Bizarrely, when the touch returns, his throat constricts and he feels like he could cry. A warm tear slides down his cheek; he can taste the salt of it in his mouth. Akaashi doesn’t make a sound but Bokuto seems to know. His hand works its way down the gentle slope of Akaashi’s neck to his shoulder. He squeezes it and rubs up and down Akaashi’s forearm, humming random melodies that seem to be made up on the fly.

 

It should repulse Akaashi to be treated in such a way. His problems are miniscule in the grand scheme of things: he doesn’t fear for food or housing, he’s getting a good education, he has a boss that likes him and parents that at least talk to him despite their differences. His life is not hard, not in the conventional ways, not in the ways he has any right to complain about. He knows this. He isn’t stupid, nor is he ignorant to current events or lacking in basic human compassion.

 

Still, the stress is hard to bear. The endless pursuit of perfection to make himself more palatable, only to realize the more competent he becomes, the less he believes those achievements will result in the happiness he had always expected. He can’t connect with people. He can’t connect with his own emotions. And over time, he finds he can no longer say he likes the person he’s become.

 

Akaashi doesn’t know if Bokuto sees those things in him. He should. Akaashi certainly hasn’t pulled any punches in their interactions, yet Bokuto still tries to spend time in his company. Akaashi doesn’t know if the feeling of being liked so indiscriminately is reassuring or unsettling. Sometimes, he worries that he’s accidentally tricked Bokuto into thinking he’s a better person than he actually is.

 

Or maybe Bokuto sees a side of him he is too wrapped in self-loathing to notice.

 

Whatever the case, he allows himself the indulgence of being consoled. His problems will seem smaller in the morning—he’s been sleep deprived often enough to know this well.

 

“Hey, Akaashi?”

 

“Hn?” Akaashi grunts. His head is swimming with exhaustion and a million questions he wants to ask but can’t.

 

“If you could be any animal, what would it be?”

 

“Bokuto-san, I’m not in the mood to play this game.”

 

Bokuto tucks an arm behind his head and lifts the other above him. He stretches his fingers wide and concentrates on focusing his eyes back and forth between his hand and the ceiling. “If I could be any animal, I think I’d be a bird. Since they can fly.”

 

Akaashi turns his head into the pillow and thinks, ‘ _not all birds can fly_.’

 

+

 

Akaashi and Bokuto leave just after dawn the next morning. Akaashi uses the train as an excuse for their early departure, but really, he’s just hoping to be gone from the house before his Mom is out of her bedroom.

 

He should’ve known he’d have no such luck. She’s in the kitchen when they quietly pass through the apartment to the front door. Akaashi gestures for Bokuto to keep going—to meet him in the hall—and Bokuto nods and exits. Akaashi stays and leans against the threshold of the kitchen, arms folded in front of him, watching his Mom hum to herself while she slices green onion for the miso soup boiling on the stove.

 

She looks so young. She was only a year older than his current age when she had him. He thinks about how hard that must have been, how he’s nowhere near ready for that kind of responsibility—for that immense pressure to not only give up so much of his life to care for another’s, but also to shoulder the expectation of loving them perfectly—to handle all bad behavior, every surprising development, with complete grace.

 

She is his mother but she isn’t infallible. He isn’t, either. It’s not fair to expect more from her just because she had a child. He resolves something inside himself, walks towards her and wraps his arms around her shoulders.

 

He feels her tense under his touch. She jumps and drops the knife she was holding. “Keiji,” She huffs, holding her hand to her chest when she turns around and sees him. “You scared me!”

 

“Sorry,” Akaashi says and steps back. “I just wanted to—we’re leaving, so—”

 

“Leaving?” Her mouth dips a little at the corners and her forehead wrinkles. “But I made breakfast.”

 

“Well, our train leaves pretty early.“

 

She nods and lowers her eyes from his face. “I see.”

 

The air between them is silent and tense—charged with the words they want to say but can’t. They’re really very alike. His relatives always said so, and Akaashi and his mother would always smile politely and agree, but he never really felt the validity of the statement till now.

 

They are both able to process information quickly. It’s a useful, timesaving skill, but sometimes they make assessments that are wrong. Sometimes, they underestimate the complexity of others. And when the realization of their mistakes come, they are often too proud—or too weak—to admit their wrongdoings.

 

Akaashi hates that about his Mom—about himself. He doesn’t have to be exactly like her, though. He doesn’t have to allow himself to be taken in by the same bad habits that have plagued her life. His Mom has never been able apologize—she’s too proud to say the words, but making him food—taking care of his most basic needs—is her atonement. This is the only way she knows how to say, ‘ _I’m sorry, but I still love you, and I’m trying_.’

 

So Akaashi takes the high road. He lets go of his pride and accepts his Mom’s love for what it is: imperfect, but there.

 

He feels the storm in his head clear a little when he touches her elbow and gives a small smile. “It—it should be fine. As long as we eat fast.”

 

“Oh, really? Are you sure? I don’t want you to miss your train.”

 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll get Bokuto-san.”

 

When Akaashi tells Bokuto they’re staying for breakfast, his face brightens in surprise and he smiles in a way that exudes utter selfless joy—his eyes glittering and gold, even in the ugly fluorescent light of the hallway.

 

Bokuto wastes no time in endearing himself to Akaashi’s mom. He helps set the table and then regales her with the harrowing story of the time he saved Akaashi from being mugged. Akaashi kicks him under the table when his mother’s face pales because he hadn’t told her about that _for a reason_. And then they both have to spend the rest of the meal reassuring her that the city is perfectly safe and it was just a freak occurrence and Akaashi will make sure to purchase mace at his earliest opportunity.

 

When they leave, his Mom folds and refolds her arms. She touches her face and pulls her hair behind her ears—fidgeting in a way Akaashi has never really seen. Finally, she makes her move, touching Bokuto on the elbow as he is heading out the door. She bows her head slightly when he turns around.

 

“Bokuto-kun—thank you for taking care of Keiji. I’m glad I could meet you.”

 

Akaashi is relieved when Bokuto just smiles warmly and bows in return. “It was nice to meet you, too.”

 

Akaashi’s mom opens her mouth then closes it, she folds her hand over her heart and nods. Her cheeks are beet red and her eyes are pointed to the ground when she musters the courage to speak again. “Please—please continue to take care of my son.”

 

Bokuto promises he will. They are loaded down with cherries and plums and onigiri and Akaashi is even given an awkward hug before they find their way out the door.

 

Bokuto stretches his arms over his head and grabs Akaashi by the shoulder when he tries to speed by him. He shakes Akaashi hard, rocking him back and forth.

 

“How you feeling, Akaashi?” His grin is smug but Akaashi lets it go.

 

Akaashi steps out of Bokuto’s grip and rubs a knuckle under his nose. “Mm. Like I should visit more.”

 

Bokuto’s eyebrows arch in amusement. “What, twice a year?”

 

“Hey, let’s not be hasty.” Akaashi replies quickly and they both laugh.

 

“I guess I’m going to be continuing my non-dating streak,” Akaashi says after a while. “My Mom might throttle me if I bring over someone new. She really took to you, I think.”

 

Bokuto smiles proudly and thumps Akaashi twice on the satchel. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere then, huh?”

 

Akaashi adjusts his bag in mock irritation and feels a tension he didn’t know he’d been harboring drain from his shoulders. “Yeah.”

 

+

 

Akaashi leans his head against the train window, staring up at the sky that looks unbearably vast without the presence of skyscrapers to anchor it down. “Bokuto-san?”

 

“Hm?” Bokuto looks up from where he is playing a game on his phone.

 

“I really, I want to thank you for coming with me. I think—maybe it’s too soon to say, but I think things will be okay between us. Me and my parents, I mean.”

 

Bokuto looks shocked by Akaashi’s transparency, but he blinks it back quickly, replacing it with a wide smile. “I’m always happy to help, Akaashi.”

 

“Mm.” Akaashi hums and looks out the window again. “Still, I’d like to pay you back, if there’s anything you’d—“

 

“How about a date?” Bokuto blurts. Akaashi turns his head back to Bokuto, his eyebrows nearing his hairline and they stare at each other, blinking. “I mean like a friend date. An outing.” Bokuto clarifies with a stilted laugh.

 

Akaashi tips his chin back, not sure if what he feels is relief or disappointment. “Okay, Bokuto-san. It’s a date.”

 

+

 

Their interactions exist under the pretense of an impending date for a while. At least, they do for Akaashi. He stops questioning his feelings for Bokuto because his motives for hanging out with him are already clear.

 

Every time they spend time together, Akaashi retreats to his apartment thinking, ‘ _was that a date_?’ And every time he finds some trifling detail to convince himself that, no, it couldn’t have been. So that when Bokuto inevitably shows up at his doorstep the next time, he doesn’t refuse him. He still owes him, after all.

 

Akaashi has just returned from a late shift at work when he hears a familiar “Shave and a Haircut” knock at the door.

 

It’s stifling hot in his apartment, so he heads to the kitchen to open the window, calling, “come in,” over his shoulder.

 

“Sorry, did you just get back?” Bokuto asks when he enters.

 

Akaashi bends his knees in front of the window and let’s the humid evening wind dry his perspiring forehead. He’s surprised that he can hear cicadas even in the heart of the city. “You know I did, since you undoubtedly heard me coming up the stairs.”

 

“Ah ha ha,” Bokuto gives a stilted, guilty laugh. “You caught me.”

 

“What do you need, Bokuto-san?”

 

Bokuto pads across the floor and leans against the kitchen counter. His footfalls are too quiet and Akaashi thinks with a grimace that he must have come up the stairs barefoot again.

 

“I was wondering if you could help me with my hair.”

 

Akaashi glances up, his retort catching in his throat. Bokuto is indeed barefoot, clad in his ratty, well-worn sweatpants with a towel around his neck and nothing else. It’s not that Akaashi hasn’t seen him shirtless, but the surprise of being presented with Bokuto’s tanned, well-muscled chest still catches him off guard.

 

“What are you—“ Akaashi gestures at Bokuto’s state of undress. “There are kids living in these apartments, you know.”

 

“I checked the hall before I came out,” Bokuto waves him off. “And I have a towel.” He says, pulling the white cotton cloth from his neck and using it to wipe the gathering sweat from his temples.

 

Akaashi’s eyes flit to the ceiling and he shakes his head. “Don’t blame me if you get charged with public indecency.” He walks to the fridge and pulls it open more roughly than he intends, making the contents clink precariously. “Thirsty?”

“Mn.” Bokuto agrees and sits himself at the table. “So, about my hair.”

 

Akaashi reaches into the back of the fridge for a bottle of yuzu juice. “I don’t really know how to do haircuts. My hair’s curly, so—“

 

“I know. I love your hair.” Bokuto rests his head in his hand and watches Akaashi almost drop the bottle he’s holding. He hides a smile into his palm. “Anyway, I don’t need you to cut it. I just need a touch up on my roots.”

 

“You mean bleach?” Akaashi asks. He leaves the empty pitcher on the counter and brings the mismatched glasses to the table, handing one to Bokuto before situating himself on the windowsill. It’s started raining and the outside air is cooler as a result. It feels good against the nape of his neck, which is heated for reasons he doesn’t try to examine.

 

Bokuto nods a thanks and takes a sip of his juice. The taste is tart and cold and makes his mouth pinch and fill with saliva. “Yeah, and toner, but I can do that part on my own.”

 

Akaashi crosses one leg over the other. “Who normally helps you?” He isn’t sure why he cares. He hopes the question seems like one born from irritation over being asked to assist with this task, rather than from jealousy.

 

Bokuto shrugs and polishes off his drink with an impressively big gulp. “Kuroo, usually. I can do it on my own but it’s a huge pain.”

 

Akaashi polishes off his own drink. “Well, I guess I can help you, but don’t complain if it’s not good.” He stacks Bokuto’s empty glass over his own and places them in the kitchen sink.

 

Bokuto throws his arms over his head, cheering in an exaggerated display. “You’re the best, Akaashi.”

 

+

 

The process isn’t as hard as Akaashi might’ve imagined. Bokuto mixes up the bleach for him, producing a white, grainy concoction that makes his nostrils burn from the smell. The application process is relatively quick, his confidence spurred by Bokuto’s incessant reassurances that Akaashi is _so_ much better at this than Kuroo—so much more precise and gentle. Akaashi isn’t really sure how anyone could be _bad_ at the absurdly easy task, but he lets himself bask in the accolades, anyway. It’s past midnight and he’s high on bleach fumes. He’ll ignore the obvious fact that Bokuto is saying such things in order to swindle him into helping him in the future. Manipulation isn’t such a big deal if the recipient is a willing participant, he reasons.

 

It’s a testament to how fond Akaashi has grown of Bokuto that the only adjective that springs to mind at the sight of Bokuto shirtless and perched on the side of the tub in a pink shower cap is “endearing.”

 

“How long do we wait?” Akaashi asks, pulling the plastic gloves from his hands and tossing them in the bin.

 

“My hair usually processes fast, 20 minutes or so should do it.” Bokuto stands from the tub and gestures for Akaashi to follow him out of the bathroom. “Wanna play a quick game of Smash Bros. or something?”

 

Akaashi slumps into Bokuto’s scruffy but plush violet armchair, splaying his legs over the armrest. “I’m not really in the mood to listen to you make up excuses when I beat you again.”

 

“The sun was in my eyes!” Bokuto throws a fist in the air and slumps to the floor in front of his coffee table.

 

“We weren’t facing any windows.”

 

“Everyone knows Pikachu is, like—way overpowered.”

 

“So how come you didn’t win when you played him?”

 

“That’s—“ Bokuto goes to grab his hair, then realizes he’s wearing a shower cap and drops his hands back in his lap. “I was just trying to boost your confidence.”

 

Akaashi gives a sly smile and snickers. “Please don’t feel the need to hold back on my account.”

 

“Well, I won’t anymore!” Bokuto yells, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “And don’t come crying to me next time when I cream you.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Akaashi laughs into his wrist and leans his head back against the other armrest, hands folded over his belly. He stares up at the clock hanging on the wall directly above him. The second hand is broken and jitters back and forth between the 25th and 26th minute. Akaashi mentally counts out 38 seconds before turning his head towards Bokuto. “How long have you been doing your hair like that?”

 

Bokuto readjusts the elastic of the shower cap, scratching at the little red indentions left on his forehead. “I started halfway through my freshman year in high school.”

 

Akaashi adjusts himself so he is sitting in the chair normally with his legs curled under him. “The school was okay with it?”

 

Bokuto waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, yeah. I went to an artsy fartsy liberal school in Tokyo.”

 

“I see.” Akaashi leans his elbow on the armrest. “So why black and white?”

 

Bokuto folds his arms high over his chest and hums. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

 

Akaashi perks up, suddenly much more interested. “Now you don’t have a choice.”

 

“Oh? And what are you planning to do if I don’t?”

 

“Mm. I guess I could decide to not participate in that volleyball game you’ve been gunning for.”

 

“Demon!” Bokuto gasps, making a cross out of his forefingers and pointing it in Akaashi’s direction. “That’s a low blow, Akaashi! You know how long I’ve been planning that!”

 

Akaashi shrugs in a way that is not even a little bit apologetic. “Guess you’ll just have to tell me, then.”

 

Bokuto digs his knuckles into his cheeks and makes an incomprehensible noise of embarrassment before letting his face fall onto the coffee table. “Only if you promise not to laugh.”

 

“Okay?” Akaashi says, voice laced with skepticism.

 

“Well, you know how some kids have like—a wolf phase?”

 

Akaashi raises an eyebrow.

 

“It’s a thing, okay!?” Bokuto insists. “It’s like, you’re this weak, powerless kid and you emulate an animal that is all cool and strong and, like, embodies all the things you wish you could be or whatever. I don’t know, my Mom read a book about it.”

 

“Is that,” Akaashi pauses and holds his fist in front of his mouth in contemplation. “Is that like—furries?”

 

“What!?” Bokuto shrieks and his eyes grow big as saucers. “NO!! No. Oh my god, _no_. It’s totally different. Like—totally, _totally_ different.”

 

Akaashi nods slowly and has to mentally steel himself when the corner of his mouth tries to quirk up into a smile. “Okay, so—you had a wolf phase, then?”

 

“No, not exactly.” Bokuto drops his forehead in his palm. “Owls. It was owls.”

 

“Oh.” Akaashi says. Some of the events of the past year floor through his head and he takes a sharp breath in realization. “ _Oh_.”

 

“Yeah,” Bokuto agrees. “I mean, I’m over it, y’know? Obviously. I don’t, like—write stories anymore—about how I’m actually a shape shifting owl infiltrating human society. Not…that I ever did that.” Bokuto is quick to correct when Akaashi makes a noise suspiciously close to a person trying to suppress a giggle. “But um—yeah. I still like them and uh, the hair suits me, I think. So.” He spreads his palms out by his sides and shrugs lamely.

 

“That’s—wow.” Akaashi manages, clearing his throat. “Not what I expected.”

 

Bokuto slumps on the coffee table again and buries his face in his arms. “I should never have told you.”

 

“No, no, no.” Akaashi waves his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, Bokuto-san. Your hair _does_ suit you. It’s not a big deal. We all have embarrassing kid stuff.”

 

Bokuto picks his head up from his arms just enough to reveal his eyes. “Really?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“So tell me one of yours.”

 

Akaashi leans back in contemplation. “Hm. Okay. Well. I used to spend a lot of time at my Aunt’s. She would babysit my sisters and me after school or during holidays when my parents were both at work.”

 

Bokuto lifts his head up in interest.

 

“Her place was really clean and nice—nicer than ours, but she had this…parrot.” Akaashi grimaces at the memory. “I really couldn’t stand him, he was loud and just—dirty. I’d try to do my homework and he’d squawk and carry on and on, and I would think to myself, ‘ _if he’s a bird isn’t he better off being outside_?’”

 

Bokuto leans forward with his hands on his knees. “You didn’t. Did you let him out?”

 

Akaashi turns his eyes to the corner. “Not—not quite…My Aunt would have us each complete a chore before snack time. Just easy things, like sweeping the kitchen or airing out the futons.” He pauses and heaves a sigh. “So—this particular day, she was having me clean the windows in the living room. That’s where the parrot stayed, since that room got the most natural light. He was being particularly loud that day, I think, or—I don’t know, maybe I was just in a bad mood, but—“ Akaashi stops and pinches his nose, seemingly contemplating continuing.

 

“Go on,” Bokuto prompts.

 

“Well.” Akaashi readjusts himself in his seat. “He was being loud, and then he pooped and it grossed me out and I was thinking about how dirty he was and I just sort of—I sprayed him. With window cleaner.”

 

Bokuto falls backwards with a loud thump, eyes still glued on Akaashi who is beet red and shaking his head toward the floor in shame. “Akaashi. Akaashi!? What the fuck!?”

 

“I know. I know! God.” Akaashi covers his eyes with his hand. “I didn’t know it would _kill_ him! It really terrified me how he just dropped dead, just like that. I felt _so_ guilty.”

 

Bokuto’s eyes are still wide with disbelief. “I’m this innocent kid running around pretending he’s an owl and you’re, like, a convicted birdslaughterer!”

 

“Bokuto-san.”

 

“Remind me to never let you near my cleaning supplies.”

 

“ _Bokuto-san_.”

 

They both dissolve into laughter that is interrupted by Bokuto’s phone alarm going off, indicating the passing of twenty minutes.

 

Akaashi calms his laughter and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. “Do you still need my help?”

 

“Nah, I got it covered.” Bokuto assures with a thumbs up and a confident, closed eye smile.

 

“Okay, well,” Akaashi stands and nods a goodbye before starting towards the front door.

 

“Hey, Akaashi?”

 

“Hm?” Akaashi pauses in the doorway, one hand gripping the threshold.

 

Bokuto tosses his phone on the couch and massages the back of his neck. “I think I’m ready to cash in on my date. You free tomorrow?”

 

Akaashi turns from the door so he is facing Bokuto. “I suppose. Do you have something planned?”

 

“Nope!” Bokuto beams, fists on his hips. “But I feel like hanging out with you. Even if you are a birdslaughterer.”

 

“How generous of you.” Akaashi deadpans. “You better go wash that bleach out before you go bald.”

 

“Ah!” Bokuto squeals and grips his pink shower cap. “See you tomorrow, then?” He asks, already halfway to the bathroom.

 

“Sure, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi agrees, opening the door and stepping into the hall. “See you tomorrow.”

 

+

 

“Let’s get crepes, Akaashi!”

 

“For breakfast?” Akaashi moves from the door, back to the kitchen and the whistling kettle.

 

Bokuto enters the apartment and shuts the door behind him. He slumps into a chair at Akaashi’s kitchen table and scoots towards the open window, spreading his legs apart and fanning himself with his hand. “It’s like a gazillion degrees.” He whines, leaning his head on the windowsill.

 

“Nn.” Akaashi uses his forearm to wipe the beading sweat from his forehead. “Why crepes? Wouldn’t shaved ice be better? Or zaru soba or something?”

 

Bokuto turns his eyes up to Akaashi who is stood over the stove in only a tank top and plain burgundy boxers. He flushes a little at the sight and turns his eyes back out the window, mentally praying for a breeze. “I know a place that has hiyashi chuka.”

 

“Do they have AC?” Akaashi asks. He drains the kettle through a filter and into a small glass pitcher. “I have to drink the rest of the barley tea to fit the new pitcher. Want to help me?”

 

“Sure.” Bokuto stands and goes to the cupboard for cup while Akaashi replaces the old pitcher with the new one. “And I think so, we can probably Google it.”

 

Akaashi takes out a plate of watermelon slices from the fridge and removes the saran wrap. “Google if they have AC?”

 

Bokuto shrugs and carefully pours tea into the cups. “Sure, it’s an anemone, right?” He plunks the pitcher in the sink and carries the glasses to the table.

 

“Amenity,” Akaashi corrects. He sits opposite Bokuto and places the watermelon on the table along with salt and two napkins. “It’s not a hotel, I doubt they’ll list it.”

 

Turns out he’s wrong. The restaurant does list it, and they do have AC, so they decide to go for lunch, since they’re full off watermelon and the leftover bettarazuke and rice Akaashi had pulled out when Bokuto announced he was still hungry.

 

“What should we do till lunch?” Bokuto asks. He’s stretched out on the couch now, phone gripped in his hands, immersed in a game of Candy Crush. Akaashi has finally relented to the reality of high summer electricity bills and pulled out his floor fan from storage, and neither boy is in a particular hurry to abandon the small reprieve it provides from the oppressive heat.

 

Akaashi gives a noncommittal hum in response. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the couch with his head leaned against Bokuto’s stomach. The fan makes his soft hair flutter around his face, lulling him into a contended, comatose state.

 

Bokuto pokes him with his toe. “Hey, don’t fall asleep during our date. Isn’t that bad etiquette or something?”

 

“Since when do you care?” Akaashi asks but picks his head up, anyway. “We could go to the bookstore.”

 

“You mean your work?”

 

Akaashi yawns and fans his tank top away from his chest. “No, the big one. There’s something I’ve been meaning to pick up.”

 

“You’re seriously suggesting a bookstore date?” Bokuto asks, playfully nudging Akaashi’s back with his knee. “Geez, what a nerd.”

 

“You have any better ideas?”

 

“Mmm, nope!” Bokuto says and sticks his tongue out.

 

“Typical,” Akaashi mumbles, but he’s smiling, anyway.

 

+

 

They do make it to the bookstore, although it takes them a full two hours to leave the apartment. Mostly because they both fall into a nap, and then Akaashi stalls because he is absolutely dreading the thought of pulling on pants over his perpetually dewy skin.

 

In the end, he compromises by wearing cuffed khaki shorts that end a few more inches above the knee than he is necessarily comfortable with because in _this_ heat, modesty be damned. He trades out his tank top for a dark floral shirt (a gift from his older sister—potentially a gag gift but he likes it and doesn’t particularly care) that is soft and breathable but still manages to make it look like he puts some modicum of effort into his sartorial choices.

 

It’s more time than he would typically spend putting together an outfit, but he reasons that even if it’s a _friend_ date, it’s still a date, and he should at least look like he’s tried. It seems to be affective, too, judging by the way Bokuto’s cheeks turn red when Akaashi finally exits his room and declares he’s ready to go.

 

“So what kind of book are we looking for?” Bokuto asks as they head out from the apartments towards the bookstore. He’s walking closer to Akaashi than usual. Their biceps keep brushing together, and even though it’s hot and they’re both sweaty, Akaashi can’t say that he totally hates the sensation of it.

 

“Mm. You’ll see.”

 

Bokuto perks up and shakes Akaashi’s shoulder. “Uwah! A secret? Or are you embarrassed by your reading choices? I already know you’re a fantasy nerd, it’s okay.”

 

“Thanks for your understanding, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says in a way that is dripping in sarcasm. “But it’s a book of the non-fiction variety.”

 

“Bah!” Bokuto huffs and folds his arms behind his head, elbows in the air. “How boring.”

 

Akaashi just smiles knowingly. When they arrive at the bookstore, Bokuto wanders off to the magazine sports section while Akaashi traverses his way to the help desk. He’d reserved the book for in-store pick-up a few days ago, and he’s already at the cash register making his purchase by the time Bokuto finds his way back to him. Bokuto hovers awkwardly over his shoulder, wavering around Akaashi, trying to catch a glimpse of the cover while he checks out.

 

“So what’s the big secret?” Bokuto asks when they’re outside on the busy sidewalk again.

 

“It’s not a secret.” Akaashi dismisses him, walking a few paces ahead, hunter green shopping bag crinkling at his side.

 

Bokuto skips a little to catch up. “So show me!”

 

“Did you still want a crepe?”

 

“Akaashi-i.” Bokuto whines.

 

“Because there’s a park near here and they have a good stand.”

 

“Okay,” Bokuto agrees, because dying of curiosity or not, he’s not going to turn down a crepe. “But I still want to know what book you got.”

 

Akaashi struggles to hold in a laugh. He is completely amused by Bokuto’s impatience, though he tries not to show it. “Crepes first and then you can see.”

 

“Yay!” Bokuto cheers, throwing a fist in the air.

 

They come across the park shortly after. Bokuto leaves Akaashi to reserve a spot on a bench with a decent amount of shade from tree coverage while he runs off to grab crepes. Akaashi hugs his shopping bag to his chest. He leans back against the bench, closes his eyes and breathes deeply. There’s a breeze, it’s too hot to really be refreshing, and the air is too humid to fill his lungs as fully as he wants, but still, Akaashi feels good. He feels relaxed, more so than he’s ever felt on a date before—platonic or otherwise.

 

Bokuto returns shortly after departing. He is drenched in sweat when he arrives, having taken it upon himself to—quite literally—run to the stand and back.

 

“I didn’t want it to melt!” he explains between pants, handing over Akaashi’s strawberry and chocolate crepe. Akaashi just pats the seat next to him, fanning Bokuto’s flushed face with his free hand.

 

“Thanks,” Bokuto sighs, slumping into the seat and nibbling into his strawberry banana treat. Bokuto’s crepe is half gone before he recovers enough to inquire about Akaashi’s book again. “So?” He asks, poking at the bag in Akaashi’s lap. “You gonna show me what you bought?”

 

“Wipe the sweat off your face and I will.” Akaashi agrees, licking a stray glob of cream from the side of his mouth.

 

Bokuto quickly complies, lifting the hem of his shirt to dry his brow, revealing his tanned, well-toned stomach in the process. Akaashi doesn’t expect himself to be moved by the familiar sight—he’s dated muscular guys in the past and seen Bokuto in various states of undress up to this point without ever really feeling anything about it one way or the other. But this time, for some reason, he feels a vague and unfamiliar tugging in his stomach. He wants to blame it on the crepe but he knows that’s just naivety. He may not have a lot of first hand experience with this feeling but he’s heard it described enough to recognize it.

 

“You okay, Akaashi? You look a little overheated.”

 

Akaashi clears his throat and swallows thickly. “I’m fine.” He reassures, he leverages the shopping bag between his thighs and uses one hand to hold it up by the handles. “You’ve probably built this up too much in your head, but—“ He draws the book out of the bag and lays it on his lap.

 

Bokuto leans in so his head is near Akaashi’s shoulder, the tips of his two-toned hair tickle Akaashi’s nose, making him scrunch his face up with a sniff. “Ah—“ Bokuto gasps as he takes in the cover. He turns his head to look up at Akaashi with wide, glimmering eyes. “A book on window box gardening?”

 

“We talked about doing it so,” Akaashi rubs a knuckle under his nose. He concentrates overly hard on the distant sound of a bird chirping. It’s a sparrow, he thinks, or maybe a warbler. Akaashi read a book on common Japanese birds once but he’s really shit at trying to identify their calls. He thinks maybe he should pick up a book on that topic specifically, although field practice is probably better suited for that particular topic.

 

“—kaashi? Akaashi?”

 

Akaashi blinks and jumps a little. Bokuto is pulling on the hairs at the nape of his neck, trying to get his attention.

 

“Yes, Bokuto-san?” He takes an overly large bite of crepe to try to hide his embarrassment.

 

“Thanks for thinking of me, Akaashi.” Bokuto smiles big and toothy. His face moves close to Akaashi’s and for a dizzying moment, Akaashi thinks he’s going to try to kiss him. Instead, Bokuto wipes his calloused thumb across the side of Akaashi’s mouth, cleaning off a glob of cream. He pops the finger into his mouth and Akaashi’s heart beats so hard it makes him lightheaded.

 

Akaashi opens his mouth to respond but chokes on his own breath. He coughs into his fist and clears his throat. “Sure.” The word comes out in a squeak and Akaashi desperately hopes Bokuto doesn’t notice.

 

“Although, we probably could’ve just looked this up online.” Bokuto winks.

 

Akaashi’s eyebrow ticks up in irritation. “I’m aware, Bokuto-san, but I have an easier time doing research with books than online articles.” He doesn’t dare say that books are more sentimental, too, though he does think it.

 

Bokuto jumps a little and squeezes Akaashi’s knee. “Ah! I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful. I’m really happy to learn something new with you!”

 

Akaashi splays a hand over the glossy, hard cover of the book. “Nn. Me, too.” He admits.

 

Bokuto sits straight, shoulders squared. He smiles gently and the dappled sunlight plays across his face. “Y’know.” He breathes, eyes bright and clear as polished amber. “I really—like you, Akaashi.”

 

“I like you, too, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi says because it’s the truth. His shoulders are tense and his heart is in his throat. He’s prepared to bolt if need be, but Bokuto seems satisfied, or at the very least, he doesn’t push the subject.

 

“Yo!” A voice interrupts. “You guys on a date?” Kuroo walk towards them, one arm holding a volleyball to his hip, the other around Kenma’s shoulders. He eyes them both with a devious smile.

 

Akaashi lifts his head to address him. “A friend date.” He is quick to correct.

 

“Right, right.” Bokuto waves it off with the weariest smile Akaashi has seen on his face to date. “What are you guys up to?”

 

Kuroo hugs Kenma closer to his side. “I thought Kenma and I could use some quality time together.”

 

“I thought Sawamura-kun kicked you out.” Kenma says. His eyes are fixed on his phone, his fingers dashing across the screen.

 

“Trouble in paradise?” Bokuto sneers.

 

Kuroo ruffles Kenma’s hair a little harder than necessary. “Daichi’s just stressed because he’s trying to get his lesson plans written before the new semester starts.”

 

“Is Sawamura-san a teacher?” Akaashi asks, gripping the edge of his book with his fingertips.

 

“TA,” Kuroo corrects. “It’s cool cause his schooling is paid for, but sometimes I question if the stress is worth it.”

 

Bokuto stands and pats his friend on the shoulder. “He’ll calm down once he meets his new students. He always does.”

 

“I know, bro, but,” Kuroo leans his face toward Bokuto’s ear and lowers his voice to a whisper. “We haven’t had sex in like 2 weeks. I’m losing it over here.”

 

Akaashi’s veins run cold but he doesn’t react—his face maintaining a mask of perfect stoicism. Bokuto just laughs and playfully pushes at the side of Kuroo’s head. Kenma doesn’t seem to care. His head is still bent over his phone, tapping and sliding around his fingers with seamless precision.

 

“Anyway, Daichi got tired of me coming on to him, so he told me to take Kenma out and toss around balls till I get the thought of his out of my system.”

 

Bokuto chokes on a laugh. “He really has a way with words.”

 

Akaashi tucks his book back into the shopping bag and stands. “Kozume-kun is a volleyball player, too?”

 

Kuroo puts his hands on Kenma’s shoulders. Kenma tips back a little on his feet but doesn’t react. “We were on the same high school team.” Kuroo tells Akaashi, squishing his cheek next to Kenma’s to try to get a reaction—only to be brushed off when Kenma walks out of his grip and plants himself on the bench.

 

Bokuto puts his hands on his hips and laughs at his friends. He turns to Akaashi with a smile. “He’s a setter like you! We should play 2-on-2!”

 

Akaashi agrees because he doesn’t really have a reason not to. He’s already put aside the day for Bokuto, and anyway, he finds it hard to deny the eager, golden eyes aimed in his direction. He does regret it slightly when Bokuto and Kuroo try to team up against him and Kenma, but the trepidation fades again when he tosses the first ball to Bokuto and gets to sees one of the top 5 spikers in the country in action. He is impressed, though he is careful not to show it.

 

“Good job, Bokuto-san.” He says when Bokuto turns his head to him, his body practically vibrating with anticipation of praise for a job well done.

 

“Akaashi! Why didn’t I know you in high school?”

 

“Because you went to some artsy fartsy school in Tokyo?” Akaashi shrugs.

 

“It’s just that that was like—uwah! I mean, it was like—“ Bokuto waves his hands around frantically, as if the words will surface if he fans the air hard enough. “We were meant for each other, Akaashi!”

 

Akaashi is taken aback. He hears Kuroo laugh, Kenma just stands there, arms down the sides of his shorts, looking mostly disinterested. Akaashi is in the process of composing a sarcastic reply when thunder cracks overhead and a raindrop glances off the side of his cheek. He barely has time to string together the concepts of thunder, rain, and ‘ _when the hell did it even get cloudy_?’ before the bottom falls out.

 

They’re completely drenched in a matter of seconds. Warm raindrops stick to Akaashi’s eyelashes and plaster his dark curls to his forehead and cheeks. He opens a palm to the sky and thinks, ‘ _was it supposed to rain today_?’ Which is stupid in and of itself because who cares if it was _supposed_ to rain when it is, in fact, currently raining.

 

Kuroo catches his attention. “Kenma lives nearby, we can take shelter at his place!” He waves, grabbing Kenma by the collar and pulling him forward.

 

Akaashi scurries to the side of the court to scoop up his shopping bag and Bokuto follows after him, yanking him up by the elbow as soon as Akaashi’s hand wraps around the handle of the bag and dragging him in the direction Kuroo had gone. The asphalt steams beneath their feet as they run, the sharp smell of alkaline soil speckling their calves in Rorschach patterns. Bokuto keeps his grip on Akaashi’s elbow, as though if he lets go, he will be washed down the storm drains.    

 

The rain lets up a little by the time they reach the awning of Kenma’s building, but thunder booms in the distance, signifying the beginning of an imminent summer storm.

 

Kuroo is leaned over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “It shouldn’t last long. We can wait it out inside,” he says between pants. Akaashi wonders what kind of relationship he and Kenma have that Kuroo feels entitled to invite people into a home that isn’t his own.

 

The apartment is dark when Kenma opens it. Kuroo explains that Hinata is at training camp with Tobio for the week and flicks on the light. Bokuto nods in understanding and Akaashi just glances around, trying not to let his mouth gape open. The place is absolutely decked out in volleyball paraphernalia. Posters wallpaper the walls and trophies are scattered across all available surfaces, there’s a jersey slung over a chair and volleyballs of various states of inflation littering the corners of the main living space.

 

“The little dude’s really taken over, huh?” Bokuto chuckles, tapping the shiny gold head of a trophy statuette for “most improved player.”

 

Kenma hums in agreement but the sound holds no resentment. Thunder cracks overhead and Kuroo pushes a towel into Akaashi’s arms. “I’ll try to find clothes for you to change into if you want to take a shower and clean off.”

 

Akaashi looks down at his mud-caked legs and nods gratefully. He’s only just stepped into the shower and started the slightly painful process of scrubbing drying dirt out of his leg hair when a peel of thunder sounds so loud it shakes the apartment and makes the lights flicker ominously before dying out completely. There are no windows in the small bathroom, and even if there were, the cloud coverage is so dark and dense, it wouldn’t offer more than the faintest suggestion of space.

 

Still, Akaashi thinks as he stumbles around the bathtub, trying to find the shower knob, it would be better than the perfect inky darkness he is currently grappling with. He slips and lets out a short yelp, but ultimately manages to catch himself on the wall before he totally eats it. He only just manages to locate the spigot with searching fingertips and shut off the water when he hears the door click open and a cool breeze dances across his skin. It feels good after exerting himself in the boiling summer heat, but he somewhat wishes he didn’t have to be nude in a strange shower in the complete dark to feel it.

 

“Akaashi are you—“ Bokuto’s voice sounds just as lightning skirts across the sky and the electricity returns with a static fizz. Akaashi blinks against the sudden illumination, shielding his eyes with his forearm when a stuttered gasp reminds him that he is not the only one in the room.

 

Akaashi lowers his arm to see Bokuto staring at him, his mouth hanging open and his eyes two perfect circles of golden light. “Oh my god, Akaashi, I’m so sorry!” He wails before slapping a hand over his face and backtracking so far into the bedroom his knees bump the side of the bed and he falls over onto the mattress.

 

Akaashi ties his towel around his waist. He feels a little flushed around the neck but it’s more from Bokuto’s reaction than actual embarrassment. He’s used to showering with guys in the locker room, after all. Communal nudity isn’t really something he’s unaccustomed to.

 

“Bokuto-san, it’s no big deal.”

 

Bokuto thrashes on the bed, hands still firmly affixed over his eyes, elbows splayed on either side of him like a pair of wing. “No, Akaashi-i,” Bokuto whines, flopping to and fro. “You don’t understand.”

 

Akaashi gives a longsuffering sigh and sits next to Bokuto on the bed. “Seeing another guy’s dick won’t kill you.”

 

Bokuto chokes out a squeak and shakes his head vigorously beneath his hands. “It’s not that,” he whines.

 

“Then what’s the problem?” Akaashi shifts on the bed, growing impatient. He reaches over and takes Bokuto by the wrist, wrenching his hand away from his face. Bokuto allows it without argument. He is flushed from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears and his eyes stand out stark and bright in comparison.

 

“I’m sorry, Akaashi-i,” He moans again. “I just—I. I had impure thoughts just then and I’m really sorry.”

 

Akaashi’s breath catches in his throat and he sits back, releasing Bokuto’s wrist.

 

Bokuto springs up and reaches a hand out to Akaashi as if to console him, before clenching his fingers into a fist and bringing it back to his chest. “I got it,” He nods with finality and reaches for the hem of his shirt. “It’s only fair that you see me naked, too. That’s the only way to make this right.” He makes to pull his shirt over his head and Akaashi blinks out of his stupor and lunges forward to grab Bokuto by the forearm.

 

“Bokuto-san, that’s not necessary.”

 

“But I—but it’s—and you” Bokuto stutters, his face half concealed by the shirt collar stretched over the bridge of his nose.

 

Akaashi watches Bokuto—his two-toned hair, frizzy and matted around his face from the rain, his cheeks beet red, and his face scrunched up in misery over seeing some dude naked and liking it. Akaashi feels an impossible lightness spread through his chest from the absurdity of the situation—that his dick could reduce someone to this kind of state. He tries to stop the laugh before it can bubble up, but all he manages to do is snort before erupting into a peal of uncontrollable laughter.

 

“Akaashi-i,” Bokuto tries to whine again but his mouth is quirking up at the edges. “This is no laughing matter.”

 

Akaashi shakes his head and wipes at the tears pricking the corner of his eyes. “Why were you even in there?” He holds a hand to his chest, shoulders trembling through giggles.

 

"I was bringing you clothes.” Bokuto explains, gesturing to some slightly crumpled folded garments to the right of him.

 

“Oh,” Akaashi stands and scoops up the discarded items. “Thanks.”

 

“Are you alright? You don’t think I’m a pervert?” Bokuto asks from his spot on the bed.

 

Akaashi rolls his eyes to the ceiling but his smile is fond. “No, Bokuto-san. If you like all genders, it’s only natural to be attracted to a naked body. It’s not like you acted on it.”

 

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?”

 

Akaashi wonders if there isn’t a hint of hope in his voice. He shrugs and runs his thumb over the fabric of the clothes in his hands, considering the safest answer. “Not if you don’t want it to.”

 

Bokuto breathes out and pinches his lips together. “Okay.” He pauses a beat. “Akaashi?”

 

“I’m going to get dressed,” Akaashi says quickly, scared of what might be coming.

 

Bokuto looks like a little surprised but nods and gathers himself up to leave.

 

Akaashi’s fingers twitch, his nerves taut, and he leans against the bathroom door to collect himself. His relationships always end in disaster, he reminds himself. It’s not worth losing his friendship with Bokuto over trying to become romantically involved with him.

 

He starts to dress, ignoring the slightest pang of regret at his decision. The proffered clothes are very obviously Kenma’s. Akaashi stares at himself in the dewy bathroom mirror—decked out in a pale pink shirt, the bottom of which is emblazoned with the brown silhouette of a cat head and about 3 inches too short to completely cover his stomach. The bottoms are equally as offensive—if he had thought the shorts from before were bordering on being too short, these are positively immodest—soft, pale blue cotton gym shorts that land only an inch or two below his butt.

 

Akaashi feels grateful that out of all his insecurities, his physical appearance has never made the list. He just shrugs when he joins the other in the living room and Kuroo teases him with a low whistle.

 

The storm doesn’t seem to want to let up, so they all decide to hang out at the apartment. They end up ordering in bentos from a nearby restaurant. It’s not hiyashi chukka, but it’s delicious and filling and gives Akaashi an excuse to meet up with Bokuto again because, really, they only managed a half date before they were interrupted.

 

He can’t find it in himself to be mad. He can’t really imagine a better way for the day to have gone.

 

Somehow, they don’t get home till well into the evening, too caught up with the enjoyment of good food and good company to think about leaving. Akaashi’s not quite sure where the time’s gone. He’s also not sure why he follows Bokuto into his apartment like an obedient puppy, except that he’s overly tired and Bokuto offers him a late night snack.

 

Akaashi yawns loud and unguarded and lets his body slump onto the hardwood. “It’s cooler in your apartment than mine.”

 

“Heat rises, right?” Bokuto places a bowl of cherries on the table and toes Akaashi on the bicep to make sure he’s still awake. “You can stay here for the night if you want.”

 

There is really only one viable answer to that offer, but Akaasi has never been good at making decisions when he is tired. In many ways, he is higher functioning when drunk than when exhausted. He doesn’t answer so much as get up, zombie walk to the living room, and collapse onto Bokuto’s couch.

 

He hears Bokuto laugh at him but he doesn’t really care because his patched up furniture is so clearly second hand but also so incredibly comfortable that it should be illegal. He feels the couch dip next to his stomach. Akaashi moans and buries his face into a pillow.

 

“You take the bed, I’ll sleep here.” Bokuto offers.

 

Akaashi doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t attempt to move.

 

“C’mon, you,” Bokuto goads. “Don’t make me carry you.”

 

Akaashi grumbles a halfhearted dispute, but begrudgingly complies. He stumbles over nothing on the way to the bedroom and Bokuto wraps an arm around his waist to help him, hovering awkwardly over the bed even after Akaashi is tucked into it. Akaashi feels a little more awake now, but he tries not to show it. He keeps his eyes shut and tries to breathe evenly—waiting to see if Bokuto will leave.

 

His pulse roars in his ears as he hears Bokuto shift from foot to foot. The air is tense, every passing second palpable. In the end, not even a full minute goes by before Bokuto heaves out a sigh and whispers, “goodnight, Akaashi.”

 

Akaashi is just beginning to let himself relax when he feels the soft press of lips against his temple and his heart flutters up into his throat. ‘ _Huh_?’ He thinks, because _huh?_ He scrambles up into a seated position, his back flush with the headboard. He wants to get all the way out of bed, but the sudden transition has left his head reeling and his vision dizzy.

 

“Akaashi?” Bokuto asks. He sounds concerned, but Akaashi is too disoriented to notice it.

 

“Sorry, Bokuto-san. I just realized—I—I have an assignment to work on. I should go,” Akaashi swings his legs out of bed. It’s not lost on him, the cowardice of his actions, but his insides are twisted and tense—the reality of his situation crashing down around him like a leak he put off mending until it was too late and he was neck-deep in lukewarm water.

 

He can’t do this with Bokuto. Their lives are already too intermingled. Akaashi dreads what will happen when he inevitably can’t live up to Bokuto’s expectation of how a normal relationship should go. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy again: he doesn’t want to endure the looks of derision or doubt because he’s not ready for sex, and he doesn’t want to have to be the one to break things off when the pressure and guilt inevitably become too much to bear.

 

At least with his former exes, cutting things off didn’t change his life in any notable way, but with Bokuto—losing him would mean letting go of his gradually expanding social circle, his slowly mending relationship with his parents, and probably the best friend he has ever known.

 

No matter how hard Akaashi tries, all he can see is what he stands to lose. He can’t foresee a scenario where he enters a relationship with Bokuto and comes out the better for it.

 

“It’s summer break.” Bokuto argues, eyebrows knitted together with worry.

 

“I know but—“ Akaashi’s foot gets tangled in the bed sheet and he stumbles. “I just, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

 

Bokuto doesn’t reply. Akaashi knows he’s probably in full on dejected mode, but he doesn’t have the willpower to turn around and check. The thought of it alone is enough to make his chest ache.

 

“Thanks for today.” He calls as he makes a beeline for the door. He forgets his book on Bokuto’s coffee table, but by the time he realizes, he’s already halfway up the stairs and there’s no way in hell he’s turning around to go back for it.

 

He doesn’t manage to go to sleep until several hours later. He’s concentrating too hard on trying to catch any sign of movement under him, the telltale sound of someone coming up the stairs to meet him, or god forbid, the sound of crying. He hears nothing, which is somehow just as disconcerting, and the next morning he wakes up to shorts that are uncomfortably sticky and the heavy realization that he messed up, he messed up, _he messed up_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto: “And don’t come crying to me next time when I cream you.”
> 
> Me: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> I really wanted to get this chapter out earlier but it ended up being so long, I'm really sorry urgh T-T Thank you guys so so much for your kudos and comments, you are all so kind and it's really helped keep my motivation up when I'm waking up at 5am before work to try to get this thing finished. As always, my editing work is shoddy...I will work on that throughout the week. Sorry OTL


	4. Fall

Akaashi sits with his head against the kitchen window, his arms folded across his lap and a cup of cold barley tea near his elbow—condensation ringing the glass. His underwear is soaking in the sink—the smell of diluted vinegar is sour and oppressive in the stagnant heat of his apartment. His eyes flit back and forth between the walkway and the sky in an ongoing loop that is interrupted only by the occasional shoulder roll or glance to the digital oven clock.

 

The weather has finally cleared up. The sky stretches infinite and bright blue yet is somehow more ominous than the angry purple storm clouds from the day before. Akaashi wishes for rain now. He knows it’s cliché, but it would better match his present mood. The birds are happy for it, though. They trace patterns in the sky—flittering about, carefree in a way that make him think of Bokuto. Bokuto, who has yet to leave his apartment.

 

It’s Saturday. Akaashi isn’t exactly proud that he knows Bokuto’s schedule. He never intentionally tried to commit it to memory, but it’s not hard to notice certain patterns when the sounds of someone moving below him are so clear. Especially when those sounds are coupled with feelings of companionship and fondness. He cares, so he notices.

 

On a typical Saturday, Bokuto will go on a jog at seven, return home for a shower, and then go across the street to the convenience store for breakfast. Today, it is a little past nine and there has been no sign of him. Akaashi is positive he hasn’t missed him because he has been staking out the walkway since before six. Not because he is worried, he continues to tell himself, but because he can’t sleep. Because he is too guilt-ridden. Because, despite the fact that he has never struggled to speak his mind, it is an impossible task to voice the meaning behind feelings he himself has yet to fully understand.

 

Flimsy reasons sift through his fingers like water, but he grips hard, desperate to ignore a truth that is more complicated. Akaashi looks back at the clock again—9:22 flashes back at him in jarring lime green digits. Seven minutes, he steels himself mentally. Seven minutes and he will relent, he will go downstairs and check on Bokuto.

 

At 9:24 he is confident. This is the right decision. Avoiding Bokuto is the easy way out, but it’s not what he wants. The point of refusing a romantic relationship with him is to preserve their friendship—to maintain the precariously balanced life they have cultivated from almost a full year of careful, patient tending. He doesn’t want to lose Bokuto to fear—he has probably already missed out on so much due to anxiety disguised as strict observance to carefully laid plans.

 

At 9:26 he knows he is selfish. No matter what mental gymnastics he performs to convince himself otherwise, checking on Bokuto is more for Akaashi’s own sake. Probably the last thing Bokuto needs after an ambiguous rejection is the perpetrator of said rejection showing up on his doorstep to see if he’s all right. But if Akaashi goes downstairs, he is relieved of culpability. He can prove to himself that he cares. He can continue to surreptitiously dictate the course of this relationship.

 

At 9:28 he thinks that he is giving himself too much credit, or maybe not enough of it. His motives aren’t underhanded. They aren’t nearly so complicated. Simply, he is worried. He cares about Bokuto so he wants to be sure that he is healthy, that he is happy—as happy as he can be, and that he is going to be okay.

 

At 9:30, Akaashi’s hand is on the doorknob—not trembling, though he thinks that it should be.

 

As Akaashi descends to Bokuto’s apartment, his anxiety escalates. Each step brings with it increasingly terrifying hypothetical scenarios as to Bokuto’s whereabouts or the outcome of their imminent confrontation. When Akaashi finally lifts a fist and knocks on his door, his stomach is cold with fear. Any sound within the apartment is masked completely by the insistent roaring of his pulse in his ears.

 

All too soon—or maybe not soon enough—the door is swung open with the same verve and indiscretion Akaashi has come to expect from all of Bokuto’s actions. Akaashi is so relieved his knees turn to jelly and it takes everything in him to stay upright.

 

“Ah, Akaashi?”

 

Bokuto looks good. He looks fine. Maybe a bit tired, but his eyes aren’t puffy or red from the telltale relics of a night spent crying. He doesn’t even seem despondent, really, though he doesn’t seem overly excited either. He just seems—neutral. Normal.

 

“Bokuto-san, I—“ Akaashi’s words leave him. Had he even decided what to say in the first place? He runs his fingernails over the pad of his thumbs, trying to will his usually quick working brain into action.

 

Bokuto waves a hand in front of his face, a sly half smile on his face. “Yoo hoo, anyone home?”

 

Akaashi snaps his head back slightly and inhales sharply. “I—sorry, Bokuto-san. I was worried you might be sick, I didn’t hear you going for your run this morning.”

 

If Bokuto thinks it’s weird that Akaashi knows his schedule, he doesn’t show it. “Oh, yeah.” He laughs a little and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, I was up playing a new game.”

 

“Oh,” Akaashi exhales. He feels something inside him shifting—worry giving way to irritation. Akaashi feels a bit stupid. He’d spent a sleepless night, prone on his couch, worrying about Bokuto’s state, while Bokuto was totally oblivious to his suffering—downstairs in his apartment, happily enjoying a new game. This should be a good thing, this should be what Akaashi wants, but somehow it isn’t. He doesn’t want Bokuto to suffer, but he doesn’t want him to be okay with the rejection either. Standing there, two feet in front of Bokuto, Akaashi suddenly feels a loneliness more acute than any he’s previously endured.

 

“I’m glad you—everything’s okay.” Akaashi takes a tentative step backwards. “Well, sorry to have bothered you. Enjoy your game.”

 

Akaashi turns to leave, but Bokuto reaches out, grabbing him by the wrist. “W-wait a sec.”

 

Akaashi turns and looks at Bokuto’s grip on his wrist, and Bokuto squeaks and pulls his hand back to his chest, chirping apologies. “Ah, s-sorry, bro!” He lifts his chin up with a forced laugh and Akaashi searches his memory banks for any other time Bokuto has referred to him that way. “I was just wondering if, y’know,” Bokuto brushes his hair back with his fingers. “If you wanted to go for breakfast or something. I mean, I can only afford to get something at the convenience store, but uh—if you want to come with—?”

 

This is a peace offering, probably. Akaashi absentmindedly rubs the back of his wrist on his shorts. “Sure.”

 

“Really?” Bokuto’s features lift behind a wide-eyed smile before he seems to take mental stock of himself and reins his expression in, settling on a gently sloping half grin.

 

Akaashi is disturbed by Bokuto’s uncharacteristic emotional self-regulation but he doesn’t show it. “Mn. Although, we could probably make something for the same price.”

 

“Forreals?”

 

“Well, I know you already have rice and soy sauce. We could just grab some eggs if you don’t mind having tamago kake gohan.”

 

“Uwah!” Bokuto exclaims and scurries into his apartment to grab his shoes. “Akaashi, you’re so smart! I want natto with mine!”

 

Akaashi crinkles his nose a little. “Sure, on one condition.”

 

Bokuto throws his head up, stumbling with one leg in the air—his foot halfway shoved in a sneaker. “What’s that?”

 

“Never call me ‘bro’ again.”

 

+

 

When they return from the store—Bokuto swinging the plastic bag next to his side—the property manager is in the lobby.

 

She looks up as they pass by and raises a hand in the air to catch their attention. “Perfect timing, I was just about to leave this on your door.” She says and hands Bokuto an envelope with his apartment number scribbled on the front.

 

“What’s that?” Akaashi asks as they climb the stairs. “Noise complaint?”

 

“No way!” Bokuto turns the envelope over in his hand and keeps staring at it even while unlocking his door and slipping his shoes off in the genkan. He lays the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and Akaashi follows behind him, trying to busy himself with taking out bowls and cups but finding it impossible not to cast covert glances as Bokuto opens his mail.

 

“Oh,” Bokuto says as his eyes skim back and forth across the letter. “Lease renewal.”

 

“That makes sense,” Akaashi pulls out two pairs of chopsticks and feels the tension ebb from his shoulders. “They require a 30 day notice of evacuation so they usually get those things out pretty early.”

 

Bokuto hums in understanding, holding the paper clutched in both hands, inches from his nose. He shrugs and drops it onto the table, moving to join Akaashi in the kitchen.

 

Akaashi glances over his shoulder from where he is searching Bokuto’s cabinets for soy sauce. “You better put that somewhere where you won’t lose it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bokuto roll his eyes good naturedly, but he goes back to the table and folds the paper in half, slipping it into a nearby drawer. “Man, summer’s really coming to an end, isn’t it?”

 

Akaashi peers into Bokuto’ rice cooker and, finding it clean, adds a scoop of rice to the inner pan. “Mm. Orientation is on Tuesday.”

 

“Augh! So soon!” Bokuto brings his palm to his forehead in feigned distress. He pushes his hand up slightly so he can peer at Akaashi. “You going?”

 

Akaashi adds water over top the rice before lidding it and flicking the cooker on. “Mm. Probably not.” He brushes the excess water off on his shorts and glances around the kitchen—trying to find something else to busy himself with while the rice cooks.

 

“You should go!” Bokuto insists. He checks the time on the rice cooker then grabs Akaashi by the bicep, forcing him to sit down at the kitchen table before he starts trying to do the dishes. “It’s a chance to see all your friends.”

 

Akaashi begrudgingly allows himself to be pushed into a chair. He crosses one leg over the other and folds his arms in his lap, half hugging himself as he leans back in his seat. “I work on Tuesday, anyway.”

 

“In the afternoon?”

 

“Yes, well,” Akaashi notices his shoulders are hunched and straightens himself up—unfolding his arms. “Takeda-san knows I start school next week so he and Ukai-san are taking a long weekend to go on a trip.”

 

“Trip?” Bokuto asks, leaning forward in his own seat, tilting his head curiously.

 

“Mm. To an onsen, apparently.”

 

“Oh,” Bokuto’s lips curl in suppressed laughter and he looks up at the ceiling. “Well, that’s uh—g-good for them.”

 

“Yeah.” Akaashi sighs and hides his inflamed cheeks behind his hand.

 

“Guess even old guys gotta get it in, huh?” Bokuto smirks and Akaashi reaches across the table to smack him on his arm.

 

“I really try _not_ to think about it, thanks.” They both smirk and chuckle and Akaashi stands to check the rice cooker.

 

Bokuto leans back in his chair, legs spread wide. “Man, those guys should really consider hiring more employees.”

 

“Mm,” Akaashi hums with a shrug. He cracks two eggs into a bowl and dribbles in some soy sauce. “We can’t really afford it, though.” He says, licking excess sauce from his thumb.

 

“Business isn’t good?”

 

“It’s not that it isn’t good.” Akaashi whisks the egg and soy sauce together with a pair of chopsticks. “I mean it’s steady, and our inventory isn’t exactly expensive. The books are mostly all donated, but—“ He scoops rice into two bowls and hollows out the center with the same pair of chopsticks before carefully pouring in the egg mixture. “It’s, well. Yeah—” He sighs and stirs up the rice till it's steaming and warm and golden. “I guess it’s not so good.”

 

Bokuto sticks his bottom lip out in a slight pout and pulls his eyebrows together in concentration. He stands from his chair with a clatter and strides into the kitchen, grabbing seaweed and natto for the table. “That sucks. I’ll tell all my friends to go and buy some books, yeah?” He smiles with his chest puffed out, happy and proud. Akaashi can only smile back lightly in response.

 

“That’s thoughtful of you, Bokuto-san, but it isn’t necessary.” Akaashi says and carries the lightly steaming bowls to the table. “Takeda-san’s family owns the store, and from my understanding, they are quite wealthy.”

 

“Wealthy enough to go on an onsen trip but not enough to hire another employee so poor Akaashi doesn’t get overworked.” Bokuto sits with a pout.

 

Akaashi further mixes his rice, adding in a few pieces of dried seaweed. “Tons of students hold a job while also attending school. I’m hardly getting overworked.”

 

“I guess that’s true,” Bokuto scrunches his nose up with a sniff and takes a bite of his food. He perks up a little from the taste, his mouth curving up from a pout into a faint smile as he stares at his bowl. “But I’m going to miss having time to hang out once school starts.”

 

“I’m only one floor up.” Akaashi reminds around a mouthful of rice, hiding his chewing behind his open palm.

 

Bokuto runs his teeth along his bottom lip and looks up at Akaashi and then back to his food. “Yeah,” He says, taking another bite and choking a little as he swallows it. “Right.”

 

+

 

It seems that despite Akaashi’s words, Bokuto still coerced his friends into visiting the bookstore, because come Monday afternoon, both Sugawara and Oikawa swing by for a visit.

 

It’s late afternoon and the store is mostly deserted. Akaashi has the door propped open, trying but mostly failing to encourage a breeze to enter the stuffy unair-conditioned space. He’s got his head on his elbow, intermittently brushing sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand while mentally debating whether or not he should close down the store long enough to run home and get his floor fan, when he hears feet shuffle in across the cement floor.

 

He straightens up and removes his elbow from the desk. “Welcome to Take—“ he pauses his refrain when the familiar faces come into view.

 

“Akaashi-kun.” Suga nods when he enters, smiling so bright his beauty mark disappears into the wrinkles around his eyes. He has his arm wrapped around Oikawa’s elbow and his head resting against his shoulder in such a comfortable, affectionate way it makes Akaashi feel voyeuristic for watching. “It’s been a while! How have you been?”

 

“Oikawa-san, Suga-san.” Akaashi bows his head politely. “I’ve been fine, and you?”

 

“Good. No complaints.” Suga’s eyes trace the store—from the water-stained, sloppily marked free book boxes on the floor to the vintage wooden ladder meant for reaching top-shelf volumes. “Bokuto mentioned this place. We were just in the neighborhood so we thought we’d stop by.”

 

“Do you have a Sci-Fi section?” Oikawa asks, leaning back from Suga and tilting his head at the interior of the store.

 

Akaashi straightens up, falling into professional mode. “It’s towards the right, past the red bookcase and between the religion and children lit sections. Would you like me to take you?”

 

Oikawa looks like he’s about to nod, but then Sugawara not-so-covertly kicks him in the ankle. “We’ll check it out in a second.” He pulls Oikawa closer to him. “So—Bokuto-kun mentioned the two of you were looking at starting a little garden?”

 

Akaashi wonders what he’s up to, but nods his head, anyway.

 

Sugawara aims a meaningful look up at Oikawa. “Oikawa’s family runs a plant nursery, you know? I’m sure he’d be willing to give you advice.”

 

Oikawa pinches his eyes shut and lets his forehead drop onto Suga’s shoulder. “Suga-chan,” He whines. “You know that’s not my deal.”

 

Suga takes a sharp intake of breath and elbows Oikawa in the ribcage. “Excuse this guy.” He closes his eyes with an apologetic smile, ignoring Oikawa’s breathless whines of “Suga-chan, so mean.”

 

Akaashi lifts a hand to interrupt the two. “Ah, it’s okay, anyway. I appreciate the offer, but I think we’ll probably just wait till next spring.”

 

Suga purses his lips and knits his brows. “Oh, well, if you’re sure.”

 

“It’s just—right before winter probably isn’t the greatest time to get started.” Akaashi explains, feeling strangely guilty in the face of Suga’s small frown.

 

Oikawa seems to notice his boyfriend’s state and rests his hand on the back of Suga’s neck, threading his fingers up through his ash blonde hair and brushing a thumb affectionately across his cheek. Suga looks up at him through thick eyelashes and Akaashi can’t exactly blame Oikawa when he turns his head to the ceiling with a sigh and grabs Suga by both shoulders.

 

“This really isn’t my expertise.” He levels a gaze at Akaashi. “But if you come by my Mom’s store, she can advise you on some good cold weather flowers. I know that at least aster and chrysanthemums are blossoming around this time. They’re pretty hardy, too.”

 

Akaashi scoots to the edge of his stool and nods his thanks. “Even so, I haven’t had the chance to ask the property manager if it’s okay.”

 

“So call her right now, we won’t tell anyone that you’re making personal calls on the job.” Suga winks.

 

Akaashi looks between Oikawa and Suga. “You’re not going to stop till I agree to this, huh?”

 

“Stop what?” Suga raises his eyebrows and blinks in a way that belies his guilt.

 

“You’ll never win, Kei-chan, so you might as well just give in.” Oikawa tells him.

 

Suga’s eye ticks and he curls his mouth to the side. He looks up at Oikawa, a hand on his cocked hip. “And when have I steered you wrong, exactly?”

 

“What about the time you told me to ask Iwa-chan if he wanted to have a threesome?”

 

Suga’s eyes widen and he covers his mouth to suppress a giggle. “That was _one time_ and it was a joke!”

 

“Do you know how long it took to get him to forgive me for that!?”

 

“Well, I didn’t tell you to go to his place in a naughty nurse costume!”

 

“It was just lying around the house, I thought it’d be good to get some use out of—“

 

“Okay!” Akaashi holds his hand up in surrender, fumbling for his phone when both Oikawa and Suga turn to look at him. “You win. I’ll call.”

 

+

 

“Can we name them?”

 

“Whatever you want, Bokuto-san.”

 

Bokuto picks up a pot of bright orange chrysanthemums and places them on the table next to his glass of water. “Okay, your name is—“ He waggles his fingers around in the air, as if evoking an ancient plant naming spirit. “Evey.” He says finally, splaying his fingers out with pride.

 

Akaashi smiles into his cup of coffee as he watches Bokuto pick a dead leaf off the plant and lean forward to smell a blossom. “Why ‘Evey’?”

 

Bokuto jerks his head back and rubs at his nose—his cheeks painted red. “You’ll laugh.”

 

“I won’t.” Akaashi insists, sitting back in his chair when the waitress comes by with their breakfast.

 

Bokuto stuffs a piece of bacon in his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Promise?” He asks once he swallows.

 

“Mm.” Akaashi hums his agreement around a bite of buttery toast.

 

“Well, I was just thinking—since we both like it—E _vey_. Like ‘v’ for ‘volleyball.’”

 

Akaashi almost chokes on his toast but he steadfastly does not laugh.

 

“Well, I’d like to see you do better!” Bokuto points an accusing finger at him and pulls the pot of violet aster out of the box, thunking it on the table. “Name him!”

 

“It’s a boy?” Akaashi asks, taking a sip of water to clear the lodged bread from his throat.

 

“It doesn’t matter, it’s whatever you want it to be!” Bokuto throws his hand in the air, exasperated.

 

“Um, okay then—“ Akaashi brings his fist up near his mouth in thought. “How about ‘Archimedes.’”

 

Bokuto squints his eyes, his fork hovering in the air near his mouth. “Like the owl in ‘ _The Sword in the Stone’_?”

 

“Yeah,” Akaahi shrugs and looks at his plate, shredding his toast into little bite size pieces. “You said you like them—owls, I mean. So—“

 

Bokuto twists his lip up in a pout and folds his arms over his chest. “Dammit.” He dips his chin to his chest in thought. “That’s pretty good. Why didn’t I think of it?”

 

Akaashi exhales with a slight laugh. “I like your name, too. It’s—creative.” He settles on.

 

“Uwah! Akaashi is making fun of me!” Bokuto whines to the plants, putting his chin on the table so Akaashi can only see the fluttering tips of two-tone plumage behind the orange and purple blossoms.

 

“Bokuto-san, it’s not good for you to encourage them to gang up against me.” Akaashi calmly points out, wiping his fingers on the napkin in his lap.

 

Bokuto gasps and sits up straight again. “You’re right!” He grips his cheeks with both hands. “Parenting is so hard, I’m lucky I don’t have to do it alone.” He winks and Akaashi has to concentrate on properly swallowing his mouthful of egg.  

 

Akaashi pinches his lips together and clears his throat. “Speaking of which.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shining, silver key—pushing it across the table to Bokuto.

 

Bokuto picks it up and turns it over with his fingers, staring at it with knitted eyebrows.

 

“It’s a key to my place.” Akaashi explains. “I thought it’d be good for you to have a copy. In case I can’t be home to water the plants or something.”

 

Bokuto’s eyes open wide as saucers—glistening as golden and bright as the petals just inches from his face. Akaashi had expected him to jump out of his chair or waves his hands around in excitement. Instead, he smiles softly—a gentle warmth spreading across all of his features—and bites at his lower lip.

 

“Thank you, Akaashi.” He squeaks, rubbing the key up against his cheek. “This is the best thing anyone’s ever given me!”

 

Akaashi had prepared a long speech about proper occasions to use it, but the words slip from his tongue. He looks across the table to Bokuto’s candidly elated face and feels something inside of him shift. Such unadulterated joy for such a small gesture—Akaashi combs a dark curl behind his ear, scoops a bite of herby potatoes onto his fork, and wonders if he hasn’t come out ahead in this exchange.

 

+

 

Almost a month into the school year, Akaashi is working a late shift at the bookstore. He has his laptop open and his homework minimized while he scopes out the online farmer’s almanac. He’s been doing this a lot lately. One of the store’s regular customers is a big weather enthusiast and he’d been warning Akaashi of a forthcoming cold front since August.

 

Akashi had ignored him at first—the guy was always full of crackpot theories and farfetched stories—but the birds _had_ seemed a bit restless lately, if their incessant morning chirping was anything to go by. When Akaashi had finally been forced to take his down blanket out of storage a full month earlier than usual, he began to worry. An early winter wasn’t the sort of thing that would usually bother him. Akaashi didn’t really mind cold weather, not more than the sweltering heat, anyway. But the flowers had started to wilt despite regular watering and the introduction of soil supplements, and he was running out of ideas as to what the culprit might be if not the quickly lowering temperatures.

 

Akaashi had just opened a new tab and typed in ‘ _how to protect flowers from cold_ ’ when the bell on the front door sounded. It was unusual to get a customer past nine, despite the fact that they were open till one. Most people didn’t feel the need for late night used bookstore runs, and if they did, it was usually because they thought it would be romantic to make-out behind cluttered, over-filled bookshelves.

 

Akaashi’s already shuddering at the thought of spending another night pretending not to hear overly explicit face sucking noises, or worse, performing the awkward job of kicking the culprits out when the kissing escalate to moans and the quiet but distinct sound of undone zippers. His suspicions regarding tonight’s patrons turn out to be wrong, though, because instead of some horny looking strangers, he’s greeted by Hinata and Kenma.

 

Kenma has his arms slung around Hinata like a sash—game between his hands and chin resting on Hinata’s shoulder—and Hinata has his cheek nuzzled next to Kenma’s. Both their noses and cheeks are bright red and they’re bundled up in woolen scarves and beanies—Easter pink and robin egg blue with silhouetted cat heads for Kenma and plain mustard yellow for Hinata. Their body language is familiar and intimate, but really, they look more cold than anything. Akaashi doesn’t worry about the possibility of having to pull them out from behind the fantasy section with their pants around their ankles. At least, he doesn’t worry _much_.

 

Akaashi lowers his laptop screen a little and nods in acknowledgment when Hinata spots him and perks up with a wave.

 

“What are you guys doing out this late?” Akaashi asks, hitting the home screen on his phone to confirm the time. It’s almost midnight and judging by the coal-ringed darkness under Hinata’s eyes, the kid is probably more of an early bird than a night owl.

 

“We’re killing time till a new game releases.” Hinata explains behind a yawn so big, Akaashi swears he can hear his jaw crack.

 

Akaashi nods. He had noticed a short line outside a nearby store with some people dressed in varying levels of what looked to be detailed steampunk costumes. But—like most things with the city—he had shrugged it off, choosing not to question it. “Won’t you lose your spot?”

 

“Kuroo’s there.” Hinata explains, rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. “He said I was shaking like his grandma’s toy poodle and sent us to find an open store with heat.”

 

“Well, you’re welcome to bunk out here until we close.” Akaashi tells him. “There’s coffee in the back if you want some. It’s not great, but it’s caffeine.”

 

Hinata nods eagerly, the tips of his red hair flickering through the air like a flame. “That’d be awesome!”

 

Kenma drops his arms from around Hinata and pockets his game. “Shouyou, you can’t handle caffeine.”

 

“I’ll just have a little, it’s fi-ine.” Hinata stretches out the last syllable and waves his hand dismissively.

 

Kenma sighs but doesn’t argue so Akaashi closes his laptop all the way and guides them to the broom closet-turned-employee break room in the back of the shop. The old aluminum coffee maker is practically an antique. It moans and gurgles and generally sounds like a dying animal, which is only compounded by the thick, black sludge it produces. But on a night like tonight when the cold works its way through insulating layers of fatty tissue and muscle and penetrates to the bone, the brew is still warm and tastes vaguely coffee-like, so, Akaashi doesn’t complain. It’s no worse than Starbucks, anyway.

 

He pours out three cups while Hinata settles into the ratty plaid armchair that just barely fits in the corner of the small space. Kenma perches across his thighs, leaning so his back is resting flush against Hinata’s chest. He nods his thanks, reaching with both hands when Akaashi hands him an old milk glass mug with a small chip on the handle. Hinata smiles when Akaashi hands him his own mug. He holds it one hand, using the other to rub up and down Kenma’s forearm.

 

Hinata takes a long sip and breathes deeply. “You’re a lifesaver, Akaashi-kun.”

 

Akaashi smiles politely and leans his back against the wall closest to the coffee maker. He holds his cup to his face—staring into the rippling, inky liquid—and blows steam from the surface. “You all must be very dedicated to gaming.”

 

Hinata shrugs and nuzzles his face into Kenma’s shoulder. “It’s something fun to do with friends—like volleyball!”

 

Akaashi has to hold back a laugh, remembering the virtual volleyball shrine otherwise known as Hinata and Kenma’s apartment. “There must be a lot of new releases this month.” He adds, peaking his head out of the door to make sure no new customers have entered the store.

 

Hinata cocks his head, looking puzzled. “What do you mean?”

 

Akaashi takes an experimental sip of his coffee, holding back a grimace at the taste. “Bokuto-san was playing a new game recently, so I just assumed—“

 

Hinata pulls his lip up in thought. “Hmm. I can’t think of any other new releases.” He looks to Kenma. “You?”

 

Kenma lowers his coffee cup from his mouth and shakes his head.

 

“Hmm,” Hinata hums, tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “I wonder if he got his hands on a pre-release or an underground game or something.”

 

“Maybe.” Akaashi shrugs a shoulder, though he doesn’t really know what Hinata’s talking about.

 

“I’ll ask him about it next time I see him.” Hinata says, placing his mug on the nearby table and stretching his arms out behind him. “Oka-ay!” He cheers, clapping his cheeks with his palms. “I feel alive again! You ready to get back out there?” He asks Kenma.

 

Kenma stands without answering, placing his now empty mug on the small lounge table. “Thank you for the coffee.” He tells Akaashi, though his eyes are pointed at the wall behind him.

 

“Sure.” Akaashi puts his own cup down. “You guys stay warm out there.”

 

Hinata wraps his arms around Kenma’s waist and blows a hot breath on his neck. “Don’t worry, Akaashi-kun. We can always resort to body heat.”

 

Kenma flushes bright red but does not comment.

 

Akaashi just rolls his eyes with a disgusted look and waves them off. He tries to finish school assignments in his remaining work hours, but his mind won’t stop performing pointless computations on how much money he’d save on electricity bills this winter if he relied on Bokuto’s body for warmth, rather than the central heat.

 

+

 

When Akaashi returns home, he is slightly disconcerted to find his door already unlocked. His heart jumps into his throat as his mind supplies decidedly unhelpful images of angry ex-boyfriends and vindictive muggers. He tries to center himself with a shaky breath because the most likely scenario is probably as mundane an explanation as him forgetting to lock it himself.

 

Turns out, none of these options are correct, though, because when he finally musters up the courage to open his door (with 110 already typed into his phone—he’s brave but not reckless), Bokuto is standing in his kitchen—hunched in front of the window—shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

 

Akaashi jumps back with a sharp intake of breath and drops his phone (‘ _lot of good having that number typed in would’ve done_ ,’ he chastises himself later) before recognition sets in.

 

“Akaashi-kun!” Bokuto whips around, shoulders drooping with wide-eyed shock before rushing over to help gather up Akaashi’s phone and close the door behind him.

 

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi huffs, holding a hand to his chest to try and steady his breathing. “I thought we agreed you’d text me before coming into my apartment if I’m not home.”

 

“I know! Gwah! I’m sorry!” Bokuto wails, grabbing his hair with both hands.

 

Akaashi shakes his head and wipes his phone screen on his pants, searching the surface for cracks and—finding none—slipping the phone back in his pocket. “It’s fine, just—why are you in here?” He asks, toeing off his shoes and moving towards the spot in the kitchen Bokuto had been occupying only moments prior.

 

Bokuto follows after him, hands clutched in his shirt and eyebrows knit in concern. “I was worried.”

 

“Worried?”

 

“It’s supposed to get really cold tonight. Like, cold enough to freeze.” Bokuto frets, moving back to his place in front of the kitchen window.

 

Akaashi removes his jacket and folds it across a chair back. “Oikawa-san said the plants prefer cooler temperatures, anyway.”

 

“Yeah, but—“ Bokuto stares forlornly into the glass, not seeing much past his own reflection. “Archie’s petals have been drying out.”

 

Akaashi hums and starts rummaging around the kitchen. “So we can deadhead him.”

 

Bokuto pulls his shoulders up near his ears and lays his hands flat against the cold window. “Shhh shhh. He didn’t mean that.” He coos, whipping his head from Akaashi to the barely-visible window box.

 

Akaashi ignores him. “I’m hungry, want to split a sweet potato?”

 

“How can you talk about eating at a time like this!?” Bokuto whines, lowering his head with one hand clasped over his heart and the other still affixed to the window. He peaks his head up a little after a few seconds of silence and holds his hand to his mouth as though the plants might be personally offended by his betrayal. “Also, yes.”  

 

Akaashi’s mouth curls unbidden into a smile and he flicks the stove on to a low flame. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know.” He says calmly, chopping the sweet potato in half and carefully laying both pieces into a pan, placing it on the burner and covering it with a lid. “If the flowers are dying it’ll just encourage the growth of new ones.”

 

“I don’t know.” Bokuto sighs, finally leaving the floor to sit at the kitchen table. “It sounds so brutal.”

 

“Mm,” Akaashi agrees, washing off the knife in the sink. “Maybe, but it’s a totally common process.”

 

Bokuto looks at him with golden eyes full of trust. “You promise?”

 

“Check the book if you don’t believe me, Bokuto-san.”

 

Bokuto lays his head on the table and stretches his arms out across the surface. “But that’s all the way downstairs.”

 

Akaashi scoffs and flips the sweet potatoes before re-lidding the pan again. “What happened to the guy that used to run up and down the stairwell for fun?”

 

Bokuto gives a longsuffering sigh and cups his face with his hand. “He had kids and developed new priorities.”

 

Akaashi muffles a laugh into his fist. “Sounds serious.”

 

Bokuto smiles and stands, walking to the kitchen cabinet for two glasses. “You laugh, but you have no idea the sacrifices I make!”

 

“Well, they do say the ‘Dad Bod’ is in these days.” Akaashi raises one eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

 

Bokuto smirks at Akaashi and pinches his side, laughing when Akaashi flails and folds in on himself. “Are you calling my beautifully sculpted physique a ‘ _Dad Bod_ ’?”

 

“Well, I’m not _not_ saying it.”

 

Bokuto pulls up his shirt. “Say that to my abs.”

 

Akaashi rolls his eyes and tucks his chin in with a laugh. “You’ve certainly got the embarrassing dad thing down.”

 

Bokuto’s eyes widen in feigned horror and he turns to the window. “Kids, Mom doesn’t think I’m hot, anymore. Stand up for me.”

 

Akaashi coughs out a laugh and goes to the fridge for the milk carton. “Like I ever did, Bokuto-san.”

 

“Ah! You’re such a liar.” Bokuto winks, taking the milk carton from Akaashi with a nod of thanks. He lets his fingers graze Akaashi’s hip when he passes by him to fetch the glasses off the counter. Akaashi feels his breath hitch in his throat at the intimate touch but he hides it behind a yawn.

 

“Tired?” Bokuto asks, pouring milk into each glass before returning the carton to the fridge.

 

“Mm. I had an early class this morning.” Akaashi explains, flipping the sweet potatoes again.

 

Bokuto nods solemnly and takes a sip of his drink. “It’s seriously inhuman for them to expect us to process anything before 12pm.” He wipes his milk mustache away with his wrist and moves to slump down in a chair again. “I don’t think I can sleep, though. I’m too worried about Archie and Evey.”

 

“I’m sure they’ll be just fine, Bokuto-san.” Akashi says patiently. He turns from the stove to where Bokuto is sat at the table, head propped up on his hand as he stares forlornly out the window. Akaashi twists his lips up, his heart battling with his mind for his next course of action. “You know,” he says finally, his fingers and toes vibrating with anxiety. “You can just stay here tonight if it’ll make you feel better.”

 

Bokuto lifts his head and blinks owlishly, his mouth a straight line of disbelief. “Seriously?”

 

Akaashi shrugs and combs his hair behind his ear, hoping he appears more laid back than he feels. “Why not? It’s not like we haven’t shared a room before.”

 

Bokuto’s whole frame seems to lighten with the brightness of his smile. “Akaashi!” He cheers, clamoring from his chair to lock Akaashi in a tight hug. “You are the best!” He braces a hand behind Akaashi’s head before planting a kiss against his cheek.

 

Akaashi’s heart stutters in his chest, and when Bokuto pulls away, running to the door to grab his toothbrush from downstairs, he can’t help but smile despite himself.

 

+

 

Akaashi steadies a pair of pruning shears at the base of a wilting purple flower. He takes a steadying breath and starts to apply pressure to the handles when a scream rips through the air and a hand grabs him by the elbow.

 

Akaashi startles and releases his grip, wincing when the hand shears clatter loudly across the floor. “Bokuto-san, _please_.” He huffs, holding a hand to his chest to steady his breathing. “Refrain from sudden movements when I’m handling sharp objects.”

 

“I’m sorry!” Bokuto whines, pressing his palms flat against his cheeks. “Are you sure this isn’t going to kill him, though? Because it seems really crazy brutal.”

 

“It directs nutrients into new growth—the book was very clear.” Akaashi recites from memory, though even he feels the slightest twinge of trepidation.

 

“Yeah, but—“

 

“Bokuto-san, it’s quite cold. I’d like to get this done quickly if at all possible.” Akaashi grits out, picking up the lost shears.

 

“Imagine how _they’re_ feeling.”

 

“I imagine that they’re feeling nothing, because they are plants.”

 

Bokuto holds a hand up to his mouth and gasps. He grips his hands on the windowsill and leans his head out the open window. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just grumpy.” He tells the flowers, his words being whipped away in the frigid wind.

 

Akaashi grabs him by the shoulder and pulls his head back inside. “That’s dangerous, Bokuto-san.”

 

“Sorry.” Bokuto scrunches his eyes shut and rubs at his cold cheeks with his hands. “It’s so super cold. We definitely need to get them a heating lamp.”

 

“We don’t need a heating lamp.” Akaashi reaches out to the window box and snips away a particularly wilted bloom before Bokuto has the chance to argue. It doesn’t stop him from barking out a pained yowl and collapsing to the floor in a dramatic display. Akaashi is just relieved that Bokuto has at least refrained from trying to take the pruning shears down with him.

 

Akaashi works quickly, tossing each dead bloom onto Bokuto’s prone body as though he were a mourner at a funeral. For his part, Bokuto is not a very convincing dead body. He writhes and covers his face and clutches at his hair with each sharp snip emanating from the window box.

 

“Akaashi-i.” Bokuto whines from the floor when Akaashi finishes and shuts the window, turning the lock before padding to the sink to wash off the blades. “Do you work again tonight?”

 

“Mm. Till closing.”

 

“Oh.” Bokuto says and sits up. Wilted petals tumble from his shirt to the floor, circling him like helium balloon in a ticker tape parade.

 

Akaashi wipes the shears off on a dishtowel. “Is something wrong, Bokuto-san?”

 

“Well—“ He picks up a browning purple petal and turns it over in his hand, delicately chipping away the crusty edges with his forefinger. “I was just thinking. Someone should be here, y’know? To keep the plants company in this difficult time.”

 

Akaashi isn’t sure if he feels amused or annoyed. His mouth twitches between a smile and a scowl before settling into his standard expression—lips pressed into a slight frown. “You have a key.”

 

Miraculously, Bokuto seems to understand the implication behind this statement. He jumps from the floor, leaving a trail of scattered petals as he wraps Akaashi into a hug. “Thank you, Akaashi-i!”

 

Akaashi stands stiff-limbed, his arms pressed to his sides. He tries to pull back, to keep Bokuto from knowing just how hard his heart is pounding in his chest.

 

+

 

Unwittingly (or so Akaashi tells himself), having Bokuto stay the night becomes an increasingly common occurrence. Bokuto’s mounting anxiety over the state of their little garden runs in an opposite trajectory to the progressively colder temperatures. Akaashi gets used to coming home from work and finding Bokuto huddled in his kitchen, wrapped in a blanket near the frosted over window.

 

Akaashi never really does much in the way of comforting him. It’s not in his nature to offer sweet sentiments in the face of hard logic, and the truth is, their flowers _will_ die. It doesn’t mean they won’t bloom again, though. It doesn’t mean this endeavor is over for good, and he tells Bokuto as much.

 

Still, Bokuto is insistent on keeping _these_ blooms alive as long as possible. Akaashi doesn’t argue, because really—they invested in them. It only makes sense that they should try to maintain them as long as possible. There may be a little bit of sentimentality mixed in there, too, but Akaashi certainly doesn’t feel the need to admit it.

 

Red and yellow leaves scatter the sidewalk, the smoky smell of burning debris starts filling the evening air, and previously flourishing blossoms droop and dry out and crumple into dust. Bokuto is there through it all—moving from the couch, to a futon on the bedroom floor, to the edge of Akaashi’s bed, to flush against Akaashi’s side—arms wrapped protectively over his waist and around his shoulders. He never tries anything so Akaashi is able to tell himself that this is still platonic—that he’s not in as deep as he secretly knows himself to be.

 

Akaashi wants to believe that he still doesn’t know what he wants from his relationship with Bokuto, because it’s safer that way and less scary. But as time goes on, he finds it harder and harder to convince himself otherwise. It is impossible to continue to deny his feelings when he wakes in the middle of the night to Bokuto’s fingertips grazing the sliver of bare stomach where his shirt has ridden up in his sleep, and his heart pounds furious and insistent in his throat—his lower stomach burning. His sleep schedule becomes positively wrecked. He halfway considers buying concealer after the third time someone comments on the dark bags under his eyes, and after a week of waking up curled next to Bokuto with a painfully hard erection, he starts masturbating in the shower to take the edge off.

 

Akaashi feels like a teenager again—a realization he finds immensely annoying, because _seriously_ , puberty was bad enough the first time. It’s when Akaashi is in the midst of this embarrassingly hormonal state that the weather stations announce the first snowfall of the year. He’s about to leave for work at 6 pm, googling how to protect the window box from early winter conditions, when there is a frantic knocking at his door.

 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto stumbles in barefoot and with his hair half-matted around his face in a remarkably impressive—if unintentional—Kuroo impression.  

 

“I know, I know.” Akaashi gestures Bokuto to the couch. “I just heard.”

 

“It’s too soon!”

 

Akaashi touches Bokuto’s shoulder and guides him to the laptop. “It’ll be fine, Bokuto-san. We knew it would come eventually.”

 

Bokuto sits reluctantly on the edge of the sofa, fingers threaded in anxiety. “Yeah, but—“

 

“Do you want some coffee? Or tea?”

 

Bokuto looks up and folds an arm over the side of the couch. “Coffee’d be good.”

 

Akaashi crosses his arms over his chest and sizes him up—taking in Bokuto’s wide, searching eyes and his bouncing, restless knees. He tilts his mouth up in concern. “Mn. You can have tea. I don’t think you need caffeine right now.”

 

“Okay.” Bokuto agrees without argument.

 

“And grab a pair of socks out of my room, it’s too cold to be walking around barefoot.” Akaashi calls from the kitchen.

 

Bokuto nods, despite the fact that Akaashi can’t see him, and pads into the bedroom. Walking back out with his feet clad in plush, burgundy microfiber.

 

“It can’t snow.” Bokuto whines, slumping into a kitchen chair with his legs splayed open and an elbow on the table.

 

Akaashi steeps a teabag into a mug and carries it to him. “I thought you liked the snow.” He sets the drink in front of Bokuto before sitting across from him, his own mug in hand.

 

“I do, normally.” Bokuto sighs, pulling on the string and watching the teabag bob up and down—progressively darkening the clear, amber liquid.

 

“All the websites are saying it’s as simple as insulating the flowers. We just need balled up newspaper and a bed sheet and it’ll be fine.”

 

“Yeah.” Bokuto mumbles, looking out the window and the dark, low-hanging clouds.

 

Akaashi isn’t sure why he seems so dejected. Bokuto’s moods are typically easily swayed by his solutions, but now all light is gone from his eyes. Bokuto stares into his tea and sighs and Akaashi feels guilt stir in his stomach, though he doesn’t know why. “Is something the matter, Bokuto-san?” He asks before he can convince himself not to.

 

Bokuto sighs long and loud and closes his eyes, letting his head thump to the table. “It’s just—“ He whines, tracing circles on the table with his forefinger. “We can protect them from this now, but it’s just going to keep getting colder and keep snowing, and—“ He opens his palm wide and smashes it on the table. “Soon they’ll die and that’s it. There’ll be nothing we can do about it.”

 

“They’re perennials, Bokuto-san. They’ll blossom again next fall.”  

 

“Hrmph.” Bokuto mumbles, balling his fingers into fists, frustratingly resistant to Akaashi’s logic-based ministrations.

 

Akaashi swallows down his anxiety over Bokuto’s strange behaviors and stands. “I have to go to work, I’ll pick up some newspapers while I’m there.”

 

“Mmhmm.” Bokuto hums, lifting his head just high enough to take a gulp of tea without spilling.

 

“You’re welcome to stay here till I get back.”

 

Bokuto gives a lazy nod before letting his head fall back on the table.

 

Akaashi bites back a sigh of frustration and chugs down the rest of his tea before placing the empty mug in the sink. He zips up his jacket and grabs a beanie off the kitchen counter, surreptitiously watching Bokuto from the corner of his eye as he pulls on his cold weather garb.

 

When he is fully dressed, he pauses awkwardly near the table, mentally warring with himself over what to say or do to pull Bokuto from the depths of his doleful mood. He starts to reach a hand out—to pat him on the shoulder—but he pulls it back again, curling his fingers into his palm. “I’ll be back around 1:30.” He tells him, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

 

“Mkay.” Bokuto murmurs. He props his head up on his hand and fixes Akaashi with pale yellow half-lidded eyes. “Text me when you get there?”

 

Akaashi feels the tension in his chest ease a little and his shoulders droop in relief. “Sure, Bokuto-san.”

 

+

 

Akaashi has found it impossible to do anything productive since arriving at work. His mind keeps traveling back to Bokuto. He worries that maybe he shouldn’t have left him, he fears that he has been too cold—that maybe Bokuto needed genuine compassion and not Akaashi's usual tough love. He worries about being like his parents—keeping those he loves at a distance—and then he worries that he is being selfish for thinking of himself and his shortcomings when Bokuto might be at home truly suffering.

 

He is in the midst of this inner battle when the bell on the door chimes, announcing the arrival of another rare late night customer.

 

“Yo, Akaashi!” Kuroo smiles when he passes through the threshold. He has his arm slung around Daichi’s shoulders and Daichi is looking up at him—his face masked in irritated with an undertone of affection.

 

“Kuroo-san, Daichi-san,” Akaashi nods politely. “It’s nice to see you.”

 

“It’s been a while.” Daichi smiles, loosening his scarf from around his neck.

 

Kuroo tugs on Daichi’s earlobe. “You could’ve joined us for an awesome volleyball match last summer if you weren’t such a workaholic.”

 

Daichi narrows his eyes in irritation and pulls himself out from under Kuroo’s arm. “I’ve never noticed this place before.” He addresses Akaashi, picking up the top book from a high piled stack of mystery paperbacks and blowing dust off the cover. “It sure is—“ he looks around, taking in the various mismatched bookcases and narrow aisles, interspersed with random piles of books and secondhand stools and chairs. “Well-stocked.” He decides.

 

Akaashi huffs out a laugh and nods. “Yeah, it’s been around a while. When I first started working here they had me doing inventory every evening, but after a few months I wasn’t even a quarter way through and they just kind of abandoned the project.”

 

Daichi gives an appreciative laugh. “How have you been, anyway? No more run-ins with muggers, I hope?”

 

“Ah, no,” Akaashi confirms. “I bought some pepper spray. And Bokuto-san is pretty insistent on walking me to and from work when he’s not busy.”

 

Kuroo brings a hand to his heart and wipes away an imaginary tear. “What a chivalrous dude. Bet you’re gonna miss him when he moves out, huh?”

 

Akaashi feels every ounce of good humor evaporate from his body. He knits his eyebrows and looks up at Kuroo questioningly. “Moves out?” He asks. His lips go numb and he absentmindedly runs his teeth across them.

 

“Yeah, you know.” Kuroo picks up a book and scans the cover before shrugging and putting it down again. “He’s moving in with me and Dai when his lease is up in November.”

 

Akaashi swallows hard and wills his heart to stop racing. “Bokuto-san never mentioned it.”

 

Kuroo does a comically exaggerated double take, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. “What, seriously?” He looks to the side and winces. “That’s rough.”

 

“Tetsu,” Daichi warns, he grabs Kuroo by the bicep and gives him a reproachful look, before turning his gaze back to Akaashi with kind eyes and a soft smile. “We have a second bedroom we’re not really using, we’ve been looking for a roommate to split rent with for a while.”

 

“Since when—“ Akaashi starts, before swallowing hard and rewording his question. “How long ago was this decided?”

 

Daichi turns his eyes to the ceiling in thought. “A month or so ago, I guess. He called us on a Saturday night in—I think—late August? And we solidified plans the next morning. He’s really never mentioned it?”

 

Akaashi shakes his head but doesn’t answer. Everything is falling into place in his mind. That quiet night when he had fled Bokuto’s apartment so many weeks ago, the non-existent new game Hinata had never heard of, Bokuto’s obsession with keeping their window box flowers alive as long as possible.

 

Akaashi is devastated, and he is mad.

 

Kuroo pats him hard on the shoulder. “No need to look so scary. It’s not like he’s leaving the country or anything.”

 

Akaashi knows what he’s saying is true—that Kuroo is just trying to help him gain perspective—but he isn’t particularly in the mood to hear it. It’s not so much that Bokuto is moving out—Akaashi isn’t happy about it, he’ll miss having him nearby, but it’s not the end of the world.

 

What he hates is that he’s been lied to—so blatantly and for so long. It must be punishment, he decides, for continuously failing at love—supposedly the most basic human function. He wonders if this has been Bokuto’s motive all along: to impress his presence against every aspect of Akaashi’s life. To make it so Akaashi can’t imagine living without him, and then to rip the rug out from under him—to move away without notice and make it so all of Akaashi’s remaining existence will be colored by the memory of what he could’ve had and what he ultimately lost.

 

Every breath passes sharp and cold through Akaashi’s nose. He is stuck at the bookstore for two more hours. He is sick with anxiety at the thought of sitting idle, trying to piece together the past month, the past _year_ , and figure out when he became so damn dependent on a guy that can’t even handle everyday garden maintenance.

 

Daichi seems to notice his precarious state and rests a steadying hand on his back. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have said anything.”

 

Akaashi shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t speak right away because he is afraid of the noise he might produce.

 

Kuroo frowns slightly, drawing his phone from his pocket. “Do you want me to text him? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind coming out here—”

 

“No!” Akaashi stands so quickly from his stool that the legs screech noisily across the cement floor. “No, it’s okay. I’ll talk to him when I get home.”

 

“If you’re sure.” Kuroo nods at Daichi who slip from Akaashi’s side and under Kuroo’s arm. “Take it easy on him, okay?” Kuroo asks. “I know he’s an idiot, but I’m pretty fond of the guy.”

 

Akaashi huffs out a half-hearted laugh. “I’m not promising you’ll find him in one piece, but I’ll let him live.”

 

“That’s all I ask.” Kuroo winks.

 

Akaashi watches them go, catching the first sight of white, fluttering snowflakes—illuminated by the gauzy yellow streetlights.

 

+

 

It’s late when Akaashi gets home from the store, but he doesn’t care. He’s had two idle hours to work himself into a state and his heart is beating in pace with his revved up breathing. He thinks Kuroo must have texted Bokuto to warn him, because when he enters his apartment—throwing the door open in a way that is not dissimilar to Bokuto’s standard haphazard method—the place is completely deserted.

 

Akaashi stomps back down the stairs and goes straight for Bokuto’s home, rapping his knuckles against the door with two sharp knocks.

 

Bokuto answers quickly, but this time when he swings the door wide-open, Akaashi finds it irresponsible and aggressive, rather than endearing.

 

“Akaashi?” He asks. His hair is matted down around his face and there are light indentations on his cheek from where he undoubtedly had his head pressed against a pillow only moments ago. Akaashi immediately realizes Bokuto doesn’t know that he is aware of the move—even if Kuroo had texted him, he probably hasn’t seen it.

 

“Is everything oka—“

 

“I came for my book.” Akaashi cuts him off. His heart is drumming in his ears, his fingers twitching with adrenaline.

 

“Book?” Bokuto asks sleepily. He yawns and wipes drying drool from the side of his mouth.

 

Akaashi taps his fingers impatiently on his thigh. “The window box book.”

 

Bokuto raises his eyebrows to his hairline and breathes deep in realization. “Oh! Sure, hold on, I’ll grab it.”

 

Akaashi is irrationally irritated that Bokuto doesn’t tell him off for stopping by his apartment late at night for something so trivial. In hindsight, he realizes that _of course_ he doesn’t, because Bokuto is amenable and social and so unlike Akaashi in almost every significant way. It’s what made him like the guy to begin with, but now he just finds it maddening. He wants Bokuto to lash out at him, to further justify the burning indignation coursing through his veins.

 

“I figured I’d pick it up, since you won’t be needing it.” Akaashi calls in after him.

 

“What’s that?” Bokuto asks, rounding the corner with the glossy, hardback book in hand.

 

Akaashi takes it from him, training his face into a neutral expression. “I said since you’ll be moving soon, you won’t need this, anymore.”

 

Bokuto blinks, then his eyes widen and his shoulders straighten in shock. “Who—“

 

“Kuroo.” Akaashi answers before Bokuto even finishes his question.

 

Bokuto sighs and combs a hand through his hair. “I was planning on telling you.”

 

“Were you?”

 

“Of course!” Bokuto says quickly. He tilts his head, his eyes tracing Akaashi’s face up and down. “Are you angry?”

 

“No.”

 

Bokuto squints his eyes and pinches his lips. “Are you sure?”

 

It’s only in that moment that Akaashi realizes that he isn’t. In fact, he isn’t entirely sure _what_ he feels. He curls the ends of his fingers against his thighs and feels his whole posture wilt under the weight of this new understanding. He _is_ angry, and disheartened and regretful, but more than anything, he feels betrayed.

 

His powers of premonition kick into overdrive. If Bokuto moves away now, their newly blooming relationship will stagnate and wilt and fall apart until there is no hope for the rift to be repaired.

 

Akaashi thinks that Bokuto must know this. It must be what he wants. He feels stupid for ever thinking that they could remain friends—that Bokuto would be satisfied with just that. This is a break-up. Akaashi’s been through enough of them to know. He takes a shuddering breath and holds the window box book to his chest like a lifeline.

 

Bokuto reaches out a tentative hand but Akaashi steps back before he can touch him. “Akaashi?” Bokuto asks, eyebrows knit in concern.

 

Akaashi closes his eyes for a second to center himself, then shakes his head to clear it. “I’m sorry. I’m going to go. Good luck with your move, Bokuto-san.”

 

“Akaashi! Wait!”

 

But Akaashi doesn’t wait. He marches up the stairs to his room, trying to appear calm and collected while he is still in Bokuto’s view, but flying up the second stairwell as soon as he is out of sight—hopping up the steps two at a time.

 

This time, Bokuto doesn’t let him go. Akaashi has barely closed his door when there’s a loud, incessant knocking at it. Akaashi wants to ignore it, but he’s worried about disturbing his neighbors, so he breathes deeply, squares his shoulders, and answers.

 

“Bokuto-san—“

 

“I’m coming in.” Bokuto says, charging through the threshold. His whole body freezes when he’s only a few steps into the room—his eyes wide and owlish as though he has only just realized what he’s done. “I mean—if it’s okay with you.” He corrects.

 

Akaashi shuts the door quietly behind him and gestures for Bokuto to sit on the couch. Bokuto complies and Akaashi follows, dropping onto the cushion next to him.

 

The room is immediately plunged into a cold silence. Akaashi stares at his knees and picks at loose threads in his pants—trying to control his breathing—and Bokuto stares at Akaashi's downturned face and tries to figure out the right thing to say to not ruin the precarious relationship they have spent so long cultivating.

 

Finally, Bokuto shifts—moving closer to Akaashi. “I just—I wanted to tell you—“ He hesitates and lets the tip of his fingers trail over to Akaashi’s knee.

 

Akaashi feels his whole body stiffen but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t really breathe, either. His whole body is wracked in anticipation of Bokuto’s words.

 

“Uwah!” Bokuto gives a nonsensical yell and grabs his hair in both hands from frustration. “I don’t know why this is so hard to say.” He huffs in an exaggerated breath and holds it, pulling his shoulders up near his ears, before letting the breath out again—his whole body wilting as oxygen ekes noisily from his lips. “The truth is, I don’t really want to move, you know?”

 

Akaashi’s brows furrow slightly and he chews on his bottom lip. “So why are you?”

 

Bokuto averts his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t want to freak you out.”

 

“You already are.” Akaashi tells him, though his face stays as stoic as ever.

 

“That sucks, I’m sorry.” Bokuto whines, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m just afraid of what I might do if—“ Bokuto picks his head back up and waves his hands frantically in front of his chest. “Wait, woah. Back up. That came out worse than I meant. Um—“

 

Akaashi waits patiently. He is anxious but somewhat amused by Bokuto’s verbalized mental battle.

 

“The thing is—“ Bokuto stares at his open palms, then clenches them and looks to the ceiling. “I like you, y’know? Like, _like_ like you. Um—“ Bokuto opens his mouth, then closes it and curls his lips up into a grimace. “I realize I just said ’like’ like twenty times, but you get what I mean. And—so—anyway, when I realized that it made me feel kinda really bad, because you trust me and you’re not looking to date anyone, so.” He shrugs. “I just—thought it’d be better for you if I moved.”

 

Akaashi is too stunned to meet Bokuto’s eyes so he bores holes into his chin. “I don’t believe that, Bokuto-san.” He says after a tortuous minute of pure silence.

 

“Erm. “ Bokuto leans back a little. “Which part?”

 

“I don’t believe you’re the type of person that can’t control his urges. If I thought that, I wouldn’t have you in my apartment right now.”

 

“Yeah, but—“

 

“No.“ Akaashi cuts him off, looking Bokuto in the eyes. “It’s not fair for you to decide my feelings on your own.” He says finally. The fact that the statement mirrors the most common grievance of his exes is not lost on him.

 

“So—“ Bokuto licks his lips. “What _are_ your feelings, then?”

 

Akaashi tightens his lips into a thin line. “I don’t know.” He confesses. “I feel like I don’t want you to move.”

 

Bokuto knits his eyebrows and gives an exaggerated nod. “I won’t.”

 

Akaashi almost wants to laugh at how serious he looks. “You shouldn’t not move just because I don’t want you to.”

 

Bokuto rubs the heel of his palms over his knees. “Seriously, I never even wanted to.” He explains, eyes pointed down. He looks up and grimaces. “This is probably tmi but Daichi and Kuroo are obnoxiously loud in bed. Like, super crazy loud.”

 

Akaashi feels the sides of his mouth try to lift into a smile. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

 

“Yeah, that’s for the best.”

 

Akaashi huffs out a short laugh and lets his nails dig lightly into his thighs. “I don’t want to keep you from dating anyone.”

 

Bokuto shakes his head vigorously. “The only person you’re keeping me from dating right now is _you_.” He says immediately. “I mean, that wasn’t supposed to be a guilt trip. I’m just—you’re the only one I’m even remotely interested in right now. Or ever, really. Not that you have to date me because of that! But um, yeah, just don’t worry about standing in the way of me meeting someone else or whatever.”

 

Akaashi nods numbly, wondering if this is the part where he admits that he wants to date Bokuto, too. That this is the closest he’s ever felt to maybe, really feeling _love_ for someone beyond the platonic. He’s not usually one to mince words, but for once, he lets language fall away. He allows himself to _feel_ his emotions, rather than justify them through logic and hard-won explanations.

 

When words finally find their way to his mouth, the content surprises even him. “It started snowing, you know?”

 

Bokuto knits his brows together, but then his eyes widen in realization. “Ah, seriously?”

 

Akaashi stands to peer out the window and Bokuto joins him. They stand shoulder to shoulder, watching fat snowflakes float through the air, melting against the square glass window and exploding into hundreds of tiny glistening stars.

 

Bokuto turns to face Akaashi “Do you think the flowers will be okay?” He asks. His eyes are twin amber moons, illuminating the bitter twilight more than all of the frosted over streetlights combined.

 

Before Akaashi can run a mental risk assessment on the possible outcomes of his actions, he grasps his hand into Bokuto’s shirt, pulling them together for a kiss. It’s chaste and a little crooked on Bokuto’s mouth, but it fills him with a warmth unlike any he has ever known.

 

He pulls his face away quickly, letting his mouth hover only inches from Bokuto's, enjoying the sensation of his hot breath against his cheek. “I think they’ll make it.” He whispers before Bokuto threads his fingers around the back of Akaashi's head and guides their mouths together again. 

 

+

 

“I just realized something!” Bokuto flips the wall calendar from November to December before tacking the thing back up. “We never managed to coordinate a volleyball game with our friends!” He circles Akaashi’s birthdate with a heart and taps the pen against his chin. “Well, I guess there’s always next year.”

 

Akaashi is watching a snowplow amble it’s way down the street. “Yeah.” He says, moving his hand from the windowsill. Bokuto comes to stand behind him, resting his chin on Akaashi’s shoulder, and Akaashi lets his fingers trail down to Bokuto’s hand—to nudge his knuckles and weave their fingers together until Akaashi’s cold hand is wrapped in Bokuto’s perpetually warm touch. He doesn’t initiate intimacy often. Even small acts like these make his cheeks feel hot, but Bokuto draws their linked hands up to his mouth and plants gentle kisses on Akaashi’s knuckle. He’s struggling with the act because his mouth is stretched tight in a stupidly wide smile, but somehow it just endears Akaashi to him even more.

 

Akaashi pulls their hands from Bokuto’s mouth but doesn’t release his hold. He reaches his other hand up and weaves his fingers through Bokuto’s two-toned hair, marveling at the way the silver and black strands dance beneath his fingers. He draws their shoulders together, grateful that their heights are so similar when he nears Bokuto’s mouth and kisses him—tender and chaste—before going deeper, wrapping his hands around Bokuto’s neck, searching for heat and warmth and comfort. His lips are slick when he pulls away, but he doesn’t care. He looks into those golden eyes—somehow even more dazzling and bright now that they are looking at him with an expression that is somehow ineffable but makes his stomach burn with affection and desire. “Yeah.” He says again with a slight smile. “There’s always next year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *collapses*
> 
> Thank you guys so so so so much for your kudos and incredibly sweet comments. It's been a real struggle at times trying to get these chapters written but your encouraging words have been the best mental fuel to keep me going. I'm incredibly thankful. 
> 
> It was soooo hard not writing smut in this chapter!!! BUT I promised myself I'd keep this fic at a teen level. I'm not going to lie, I kinda really want to write a sequel about their first year dating that is rated M...(not just for the smut, but also to further explore Akaashi's demisexuality! See!? Noble reasons!!....heh). Um, let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading...
> 
> Anyway, thanks again, lovelies!! I hope you have a wonderful holiday!! As always, you can reach me at my tumblr youremarvelous.
> 
> All my love! <3

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot but...um, yeah. Didn't happen that way. I haven't edited it very thoroughly at all because I'm an awful person and I've been working on this so long I just want to get it published, already. I will go through and edit before posting the next chapter. I apologize immensely for any egregious errors. Also, other characters/couples will feature more later on, I will tag as they appear. For now, I just want to get the relationship between Bokuto & Akaashi established. Soooo yeah, thanks for reading. :)
> 
> If you wanna over-analyze Haikyuu!! stuff or just generally chat about these love muffins, feel free to hit me up on tumblr, it's youremarvelous over there. Thanks lovelies!


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